


Advantage: A Collection of Memories of Mycroft Holmes

by SaraStarchild



Series: Hungerlock [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 66th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Ladies and Gentlemen, MYCROFT'S HUNGER GAMES, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Feels, Protective Mycroft, Rebellion, Suicidal Thoughts, THE PRIDE OF MOUNT VERNON, Teen Mycroft, the moment you've been waiting for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28132395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraStarchild/pseuds/SaraStarchild
Summary: Before Sherlock and John met, fell in love, and earned their happy ending, there was Mycroft Holmes. There are many moments that made Mycroft who he was, and what drove him to do what he needed to do in the events of Sentiment and Constantly. Witness the metaphorical birth and the events that led to the death of the smartest tribute of the Hunger Games, and the leader of the rebellion that we never saw coming in Constantly.Everyone has a story. Everyone has a history. This is Mycroft's.(It was really hard to figure out the archive warnings and tags for this fic; just ignore the rape/non-con warnings, it's talked about but not actually played out.)WOW I GOT REALLY BAD AT SUMMARIES JUST READ THE FIC PLEASE I BEG U
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & Harry Watson, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson's Family, Mycroft Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes & Original Male Character(s), Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Series: Hungerlock [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/195881
Comments: 20
Kudos: 13





	1. Odds.

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S HERE! IT'S FINALLY HERE! I've been working on this since 2018 (user KRH specifically would know this), and I chose today, Mycroft's birthday (in this fic, at least) to start posting the story. I hope that it's good I sincerely hope so.

“Mycroft Holmes!”

Mycroft had done the math so many times in his head that it was almost second nature to him. He had memorized the equation when he was twelve (it was hardly difficult) and had come to review the math every time the reapings came around, when a small, childish part of Mycroft feared that there might be a chance that his name would be drawn. He had gone over the equation all while getting ready for the ceremony, while walking to the Justice Center, and all throughout the beginning of the reaping ceremony, right up to the drawing of the names.

His name was in the bowl twenty times this year; a measly twenty out of nearly two thousand names. Doing the math out, there was only a one percent’s chance that he’d get reaped into the Hunger Games. In fact, everyone in District 12 between the ages of twelve to eighteen had between a 0.05% and a 3.5% chance of being reaped into the Hunger Games. Mycroft knew the odds well, and he knew that his twenty names were virtually nothing compared to the sea created by all the other names of the boys in that bowl.

Until right at that moment, when Mrs. Hudson called his name; _his_ name, out of all the others in the bowl.

If Mycroft was literally anyone else in Panem, he would’ve wondered if he heard Mrs. Hudson correctly, and look around to see who she had _really_ called up to the stage, but he was Mycroft Holmes, and therefore he knew he had heard correctly, and he watched as the boys around him began to step away from him, creating a path from Mycroft to the stage.

As he began to make the walk along the path that was made for him, Mycroft could hear a few things; utterances of reactions amongst those watching him, the shuffling of his own feet as they walked, the early summer breeze blowing around them all, but there was one thing specifically Mycroft strained to hear, but couldn’t make out at all: the sounds of his mother and brother. He wasn’t really expecting to hear much from his mother (she was a quiet crier; the deaths of his sister Eurus and their father served as evidence enough), but his little brother’s reaction – nine-year-old Sherlock Holmes’ reaction – was one Mycroft was never able to truly predict. Sure, Sherlock was intelligent, and he knew the Hunger Games were dangerous, but he was still just a child, and although he was surrounded by the idea of death, Mycroft was unsure that Sherlock was able to fully grasp onto the concept.

But he could not hear the child scream, or yell, or calling out for his brother, so Mycroft supposed that was good.

They would be fine, Mycroft thought as Mrs. Hudson drew the name of the female tribute to participate alongside and against Mycroft in the Hunger Games (a thirteen-year-old by the name of Anthea McAllister). They had each other, he reminded himself as he shook Anthea’s hand and the two were ushered inside of the Justice Building. Of course he would try to survive through the Hunger Games; he was probably the smartest tribute the Hunger Games would ever see, after all. But for right now, he couldn’t get his hopes up, Mycroft told himself as two Peacekeepers locked him in a room within the building.

Right now, he had to focus on saying goodbye.

When little Sherlock Holmes burst into the room, hysterically sobbing as he buried his face into Mycroft’s torso, the first thing Mycroft noticed was the fact that their mother was not immediately behind the boy.

Where was she, if not with Sherlock?

“You have three minutes,” the Peacekeeper who had let Sherlock in alerted the two brothers, and Mycroft nodded, then focused on his brother as the man closed the door.

“Shh, shh…” Mycroft tried to shush his brother, to barely any avail. “Sherlock – where’s Mom?”

“I dunno.” Sherlock whimpered, his voice muffled by Mycroft’s shirt, and Mycroft felt his stomach drop. If she didn’t arrive soon, she wouldn’t be able to see him off...

Mycroft crouched down, separating Sherlock’s face from his shirt and putting his hands on his brother’s shoulders.

“Go home,” he ordered, willing for his brother to listen. “Go to Mom. Tell her I’ll be back.”

“But –” Sherlock began, looking away from his brother for a moment.

“No. No, Sherlock, look at me,” Mycroft demanded, jostling Sherlock slightly, until the boy looked at him again. “I’m going to win this. For you and for Mom. I’ll come back. I promise, okay?”

He hated lying to him, so much. He hated looking into those eyes and making promises that there was no way for him to keep, and there was no way for him to know whether or not he had any right to tell his brother such things, but at this point, Mycroft would’ve said anything in order to get Sherlock to stop crying.

“O-okay,” Sherlock sniffled, finally calming down.

“Look after yourself. Look after Mom. Don’t be too much of a bother, okay?” Mycroft asked, trying to chuckle, trying to make Sherlock laugh, but his own tears welled over and cascaded down his cheeks, instead. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, and there was a piece of Mycroft that was wounded by the fact that Sherlock didn’t return the sentiment. But he also knew his brother loved him; Sherlock wouldn’t have been this upset by his reaping if he didn’t.

“Yes?”

“D-Don’t die, okay?” Sherlock asked, his voice breaking.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft promised, and kissed his brother’s forehead. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother once more, and then the Peacekeepers came in their white armored suits to drag Sherlock away.

Only then the boy screamed, knowing of the reality that was very quickly happening around him, and the sound of the cry broke Mycroft’s heart.

 _He’ll be fine,_ he tried to remind himself. Sherlock had their mother; she would take care of him. Sure, they wouldn’t have Mycroft’s tesserae anymore, but they’d survive without him.

But still, Mycroft’s eyes began to water. He looked up toward the ceiling, hoping for gravity to force his budding tears back to where they came from, swallowing the lump in his throat. He couldn’t cry; he was never one to cry before, and he definitely wasn’t going to start, now.

A minute later, the door opened again, and Mycroft looked down from the ceiling, expecting to see his mother in the doorway, but she was not who was standing there. Instead, he found the daughter of District 12’s grave-keeper, Mycroft’s first, last, and only ex-girlfriend, and the one person he considered to be his one and only friend: Lindsay Cairns.

“Lindsay,” he gasped, as the girl, tears streaming down her cheeks, ran up and threw her arms around him.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered in response, and Mycroft shook his head.

“But it is,” he whispered back. “We knew one of us getting reaped was always a possibility.”

“You said it was _slim,_ Mycroft,” Lindsay argued, finally letting him go. “Between point-zero-five and three-and-a-half percent, _that’s_ what you said the odds were –”

“Well, obviously I was wrong –”

“You’re never wrong, though – about anything,” Lindsay cut him off, her voice breaking as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, and went on before Mycroft could argue that obviously he had been wrong about this. “You’re smarter than everyone, Mycroft. You could win –”

“Don’t,” Mycroft ordered, putting his hand up to stop her.

“You _could –_ ”

“Lindsay, please, stop. You know the tributes in the Career Districts have been training to win the Hunger Games since they learned to walk, Districts One and Two especially. Yes, I’m smarter, but they think like killers and have the brute force to follow through; I can’t compete with that –”

“But you’re going to try, right?” Lindsay asked, and Mycroft sighed.

“Of course I’m going to try, don’t think for a second that I’m not going to try, but the odds don’t look good.”

“Well, you defied these odds, didn’t you?” Lindsay asked, gesturing to the room around them. “Maybe you’ll defy those odds, too.”

“But if I don’t,” Mycroft started, grabbing ahold of Lindsay’s shoulders, looking into her eyes as he made his requests: “When they send my body back, tell your dad to just bury me. No ceremony, no flowers. Don’t even let him open the box they put me in, do you understand?” he asked, and Lindsay nodded, her tears now streaming steadily down her face. “I don’t want anyone to see me like that, not even your father, and especially not you and _definitely_ not my mother and Sherlock; my family has suffered enough, you know that better than anyone. I can’t put them through seeing me like that.”

“I understand,” Lindsay said, and Mycroft knew she did. “I’ll make sure he…as is,” she went on, her lip trembling as she tumbled over the words.

“Thank you,” Mycroft managed, allowing her to bring him in for one last hug as the doors opened again, and the Peacekeeper informed them that their time was at an end. “Don’t mourn for me, Lindsay Cairns, don’t you dare,” he whispered in her ear.

“Don’t make me have to, Mycroft Holmes,” she replied, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

And he watched as she too left the room, leaving him alone again.

In that moment, he hated himself for allowing himself to grow close to her, for allowing her to sit with him at lunch the day after the ceremony in which they received their medals of valor when their respective parents had died in District 12’s mines...

_“Hi,” she had said, holding her cafeteria tray, standing across from him._

_Mycroft glanced up, only for a second before focusing back on his food, deciding not to reply. Sure, she had been looking at him, but that might’ve just been because he had looked up and her eyes had been attracted to the movement. She couldn’t have been talking to him, surely._

_“I can’t believe they gave us medals; it’s stupid. My mom_ died _– I don’t want a medal, I want my mom back,” she went on, taking the seat across from him._

_Mycroft glanced around, more confused than he had been before; in fact, more than he had ever been before in his life. Who was this girl? Why was she suddenly sitting with him like she belonged there? No one had ever sat with Mycroft before; not willingly, at least. Of course, there were times where a teacher would assign seats within the classroom, forcing the other students in Mycroft’s class to sit next to him, but seating for lunch was not assigned. Mycroft was used to sitting alone, which he did every day, until now._

_“I saw you yesterday,” she went on, talking as if she wasn’t the one human being who had ever been able to confuse Mycroft Holmes. “Getting your medal and all that.”_

_“I wasn’t the only other person getting a medal,” Mycroft informed her; in all, nine children received a medal of valor in the event of the explosion. Eleven people had died, but two of the victims did not have children._

_“Yeah, but you’re the only one in my class,” she said, and that was when Mycroft really looked up at her, really seeing her for the first time. Indeed, she_ was _in his class, but he couldn’t place her name. “My name’s Lindsay Cairns,” she said, as if reading his mind, putting her hand out between them for him to shake._

_Mycroft slowly put down his lunch – a half-eaten single piece of stale bread – and glanced between Lindsay and her hand. She was mourning, looking for connections from people with a shared experience; she’d move on and go back to her other friends within a week, surely. What would humoring her to help her feel better hurt?_

_“Mycroft Holmes,” he replied, shaking her hand._

_“I know,” she replied, smiling; it was a kind smile, not necessarily happy, but definitely genuine. She then glanced down at his lunch. “Is that all you have? Here –” she said, beginning to tear her sandwich apart._

_“Oh, no you don’t have to –” Mycroft started, but before he could finish she was already placing half of her sandwich into his hand._

_“I know I don’t,” she said. “I’m not very hungry, anyway.”_

_Mycroft considered the sandwich in his hand for a moment before passing it back to her._

_“At least give me the smaller half,” he insisted, and Lindsay smiled again, switching the halves with him._

_“It’s a deal.”_

Mycroft pressed his head against the door. He should’ve never spoken directly to her, that day. He should’ve never allowed for the two of them to become friends, or to date for that brief amount of time. Sure, he had been prepared for her to walk away from him forever since the day they met, or for her to be reaped and never be seen or heard from again from the moment they turned twelve, but she had grown attached to him, and he had allowed for it to happen. Now Lindsay was devastated to learn that she would probably never see him again, and he…cared…

Mycroft grit his teeth. No, he didn’t care, not about her, not really. After the death of his father, the only people he really cared about were Sherlock and their mother –

Their mother.

She should’ve been there by now, she should’ve said goodbye to Mycroft, _where the hell was she?_

It was at that moment that it occurred to him that he should’ve taken a second to ask Lindsay about whether or not she had seen Mrs. Holmes on her way to see him, and he instantly hated himself even more. He wasn’t normally that stupid, how could he have been that stupid?

“Damnit,” he whispered, just as he heard a small cough from the other side of the door; the cough of one of the Peacekeepers guarding the door.

Mycroft wasn’t sure what pushed him to do it, whether it was the stress and panic he suddenly found himself under, or the desperation to see his mother, or just pure, stupid guts, but Mycroft slowly raised his fist and knocked on the door he currently had his head pressed up against, loudly, three times, ensuring that the Peacekeepers would hear him.

There was no response.

Mycroft counted to fifteen in his head.

Still no response.

And so, Mycroft opened his mouth.

“I know you’re out there,” he informed them, loud and clear.

Nothing.

“How much longer am I in here for?” he asked.

Still, nothing.

Mycroft began going through the options in his head.

They heard him; if he could hear them softly coughing they could surely hear him speaking directly to them. However, these could be Peacekeepers straight from the Capitol guarding him; they would never speak to a tribute unless given direct orders to do so by a Gamemaker. The Peacekeepers stationed in District Twelve, they were more lax about such rules. Their District was a small one; all of the Peacekeepers knew the citizens and all of the citizens knew the Peacekeepers. Some of them were more uptight than others, but all of them knew each and every civilian’s name, including Mycroft’s.

There was only one way to find out: by triggering their empathy, and by asking the most important question plaguing Mycroft’s mind.

“I was just wondering…if either of you have seen my mother.”

Silence. Mycroft counted to thirty in his head, and still there was nothing.

And then, quietly:

“…That’s a negative, Holmes.”

Mycroft closed his eyes again, only a fraction of his brain making the effort to note the discovery that the guards were indeed District Twelve’s Peacekeepers. Where the hell was she? She wasn’t going to be able to see him off, she wasn’t going to be able to say goodbye –

He wasn’t going to be able to say goodbye.

And slowly, Mycroft raised his hand and pressed it up against the door, as if willing her into existence on the other side of the wooden door.

“I don’t know where she is,” he said finally, quietly. They had let Sherlock and Lindsay inside the room; they knew she wasn’t with either of them.

“You’ll know when we do,” the Peacekeeper replied, still sounding all too professional despite the sympathy he was trying to give.

Mycroft knew they wouldn’t do anything to find her; they couldn’t. This was the Hunger Games; finding a tribute’s mother before they left was the least of anyone’s concerns. Right now, their main concern was ensuring the reaping ceremony and the transfer of tributes from District 12 to the Capitol went without issue. The only way they would find his mother was if they saw her walking down the hallway, and by that point there’d be no use in alerting Mycroft before they opened the door.

Mycroft grit his teeth and backed away from the door, frustrated. Why the hell was this happening to him?! What had he, Mycroft specifically, done to deserve this? A rushed goodbye from his brother and his ex-girlfriend and no sign of his mother at all?

Tears welled up in his eyes for the third time since entering the room, and Mycroft fought to keep them from falling. He was a tribute now; the world would be watching him. He couldn’t cry; as soon as a camera turned to him everyone would know. Any other tribute who saw him would quickly label him as weak, and an easy target, and that couldn’t happen, not if Mycroft wanted even a sliver of a chance at winning this.

There was only once piece of good news, as it stood right now: anyone who would want to visit Mycroft had done so already, apart from his mother. So, until it was time to leave District 12, the only reason why the door would open again would be because his mother did finally arrive.

But a half hour passed, and she still didn’t show. Fifteen minutes after that, the door opened again to reveal the two Peacekeepers who had been guarding him.

He looked up from the spot on the floor he had been staring at, trying to collect himself as he sat and waiting for the next move.

“Where is she?” Mycroft asked, but one of the Peacekeepers shook his head.

“I’m sorry, she never came,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

Mycroft never remembered much about that trip from that room to the train, at least, not the details. He remembered walking with Anthea, and deducing that she had spent most of the last hour in tears. He remembered getting into a car, for the first time in his life, and getting out of it again. He remembered cameras, lots of them, from the Capitol’s paparazzi and the camera crew for the Hunger Games, all recording his image for the world to see. He remembered wanting to look around, to see if his mother was anywhere in the crowd on either side of them, but he knew he was better off staring straight ahead. He remembered seeing faces in the crowd when he did happen to glance around, and though he remembered recognizing them, he couldn’t remember the names of the people those faces belonged to, or what those faces even looked like after the fact. He remembered stepping onto the train, and the doors closing behind him, and thinking back to the time when he was a child, before Sherlock was born, when he thought that the Capitol existed within the train. He remembered Mrs. Hudson, who was nothing more to him than the woman who drew his name from the accursed bowl, speaking to the two tributes, but Mycroft didn’t take in a word she said.

That was, until, she placed a small electronic rectangle in his hand.

He looked up at her.

“What is this?”

For the briefest of moments, the woman looked shocked that Mycroft had cut her off, but she quickly recovered, smiling as she spoke.

“I was just getting to that. Obviously, District Twelve doesn’t have a previous victor to mentor you like everyone else does, but we at the Capitol didn’t want you to be at a complete disadvantage. So, we put together these drives – and I’ll show you how they work, I understand you don’t have technology like this at home – but these little sticks have recordings of _every_ Hunger Games! Isn’t that neat? Obviously, they’re not as long as the recaps we see at the end of each Hunger Games, but it has all the best parts, I think! To be honest, I think it’s even better than having a mentor, because you have access to _all_ the Hunger Games, not just one or two from the point of view of one or two specific victors, and you’ll be able to _see_ it all happening instead of just hearing about it!”

“So we just…watch these?” Anthea asked, looking as if she was about to cry again.

“Oh, don’t be upset, dear! I know this is all very different from what you might’ve been told but think about it this way: it’s almost like watching a really informative movie! You can sit back, relax, and you can eat as many snacks as you want as you watch!” she exclaimed, gesturing to a table filled with Capitol food nearby.

Mycroft looked down at the small metal rectangle in his hand.

“Well, I’m going to get right on that,” he said, approaching the table, taking a plate, and beginning to fill it up with food.

“That’s the spirit! You get all the snacks you want and then I can show you how to work your television –”

“I’ll figure it out,” Mycroft said coldly, and started for the door of the train car.

“Okay, feel free to ask if you need any help! Your room is on the right –” Mrs. Hudson called after him, but Mycroft closed the door before she could finish her sentence.

He didn’t care about her; she drew his name and put him into this mess. She literally single-handedly took him away from Sherlock and his mother. Yes, she was just doing her job, but that didn’t give Mycroft any reason to sympathize for or tolerate her. She wasn’t important, at all, and so he wasn’t going to waste time nor energy trying to be nice to her.

For now, he had sixty-three hours of Hunger Games footage to get through.


	2. Mentor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft meets Dean Bainbridge, who has a unique opportunity for him.

Mycroft had not slept through the night on the train, instead watching through the hour-long recaps of the first twenty Hunger Games, only taking breaks to use the bathroom or refill his plate with the Capitol’s food. At this point, though, after spending nearly five hours inside of the Capitol, he was beginning to regret that decision. He also was finding that the only thing that he was liking about this entire situation (despite Mrs. Hudson blathering on and on about the “many” likable things about the Capitol and the Hunger Games experience at large) was the food. Everything Mycroft let pass through his lips was unlike anything he had ever tasted before and, despite everything, he wasn’t going to let the opportunity of good food pass him by after living and starving in the Seam all of his life.

Mycroft absolutely hated everything else about the Capitol and the Hunger Games experience, though. He hated Mrs. Hudson, who was entirely too optimistic about their situation to tolerate. He hated the prep team, who never stopped talking and were so annoying Mycroft didn’t even take the effort to learn their names. He hated the fact that these three people had the authority to strip him down and pluck, hose, scrub, wax, cover up and criticize each and every flaw that Mycroft didn’t even know he possessed. He hated Pierre, the stylist who put Mycroft in a stupid coal miner’s outfit to be paraded through the streets of the Capitol alongside Anthea, and he hated that idiotic parade, as well. By the end of the first night in the Capitol, Mycroft, who was never a person who slept for more than five hours each night, was more than ready for bed.

That was until just before Mycroft was about to lie down to go to sleep, when Mrs. Hudson alerted both Mycroft and Anthea of the fact that they had a guest.

The two tributes, both dressed in their Capitol-issued silk pajamas, entered the sitting room of the penthouse where they were to live for the next week, and found a dark-skinned young man, not much older than Mycroft, donned in a tan suit, who beamed upon laying eyes upon the two tributes.

“Hello, hopefully I didn’t wake you! I’m sorry for arriving so late, I had to sort out a few things before I could step out. You must be Anthea –” he stepped forward, taking Anthea’s hand to shake, before moving on and shaking Mycroft’s hand. “– and you must be Mycroft; it’s so great to finally meet you both! I’m –”

“Dean Bainbridge,” Mycroft spoke at the same time Dean did, and Dean’s smile brightened. “I remember you,” Mycroft added quickly.

When Mycroft was about five years old, he and his mother started watching the Hunger Games together, playing games of deduction to figure out which tribute would take home the title of victor each year. Sherlock started to play along with them the year before last. This was the only reason why Mycroft remembered Dean Bainbridge’s name: Mycroft had made the deduction early on that Dean, a tribute career from District 4, would win the Hunger Games last year.

Dean had changed a lot though, over the last year. It happened to most Hunger Games victors, actually. As soon as the Capitol catches wind of your existence, they changed you. They didn’t do it on purpose, of course; it was simply what happened upon adjusting to the Capitol’s world. After a few months, a piercing or two didn’t seem so outrageous, neither did dyeing their hair a bright color, or a tattoo. Some people went further than that, getting implants or some other sort of cosmetic surgery, there was one tribute from District 2 a few years back who, after winning the Hunger Games, altered her teeth into sharp points and inlaid them with real gold. Dean was no exception to changing his appearance, but his changes were more on the subtle side; first off, he was definitely wearing makeup, and the multiple piercings going up each of his ears were obviously new, not to mention the more expensive clothes and the fancier hairstyle –

“I’m glad you recognize me,” Dean went on. “As you probably remember, I won the Hunger Games last year, and I’m now a mentor for District Four.”

“Then why are you here?” Anthea asked, and Mycroft tried his hardest not to roll his eyes. He was the last victor of the Hunger Games; it was probably a tradition that the newest victor had to go to each of the newest tributes and give them words of inspiration and luck for the year’s Hunger Games, it just wasn’t televised. Surely there would be tons of traditions like this; ones that took place off camera that no one but that year’s tributes knew about, but he would soon be learning each and every one of them.

“Well, I also wanted to officially introduce myself as the…unofficial District Twelve mentor for this year’s Hunger Games, as well, seeing as your district doesn’t have a victor to mentor you.”

“Unofficial?” Anthea repeated, but Mycroft didn’t need to ask.

“President Snow doesn’t know,” he assumed, and Dean shrugged.

“He would never approve.”

“But Mrs. Hudson does, obviously,” Mycroft went on.

“Of course – she’s touched by my generosity and agrees with me when I say that, when the best intentions are involved, what President Snow doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And besides, it beats having to watch sixty hours of Hunger Games footage, right?” He waited for a response for a moment, and then continued when it was clear that he wasn’t going to get any. “So, what do you say? Would either of you, or both of you, like a mentor?”

Anthea spoke almost immediately.

“Um, yes?” she said, her teenage attitude revealing itself quickly as she spoke.

“Excellent,” Dean replied, and then turned his attention to Mycroft. “And you?” he asked.

This had to be a trap, and Mycroft knew it. Tributes and mentors from opposing Districts never interacted, as far as Mycroft knew. Either Dean was trying to get Mycroft and Anthea into trouble, or he was hoping the two District Twelve tributes were complete idiots willing to share any strategy they thought of to him, and he’d run whatever information he got back to his own tributes. It was genius, actually, taking advantage of the weakest players like this.

But Mycroft was smarter than that, and definitely smarter than Dean Bainbridge and whatever scheme he was cooking up.

“I’ll just watch the footage, thank you very much.”

Dean smiled, shrugging, his face conveying nothing but understanding.

“Suit yourself then,” he said, and, after giving instructions to Anthea about the times and places they would begin her training, Dean gave a small smile to the both of them, eyes lingering on Mycroft, and then he was gone.

“I’m surprised you trust him,” Mycroft mumbled to Anthea, just after the door closed behind him, and she shrugged in reply.

“Anything beats watching those tapes,” she said, quietly, her face contorted in disgust, and bid him goodnight before she took off too, off toward her room, leaving Mycroft standing in the sitting room by himself.

For a brief moment, he considered his original plan of going off to bed, as well, and although the thought of laying down to sleep enticed him greatly, Mycroft grabbed the remote from the coffee table. But, instead of loading up the next recap of the Hunger Games, Mycroft instead found himself bringing up the broadcast of District 12’s reaping ceremony, pausing the recording on one of the many clips the paparazzi caught of Mycroft himself. After pressing a few buttons, he was able to zoom in, until his face filled up the screen.

Mycroft stepped closer, analyzing his own face; trying to forget what he remembered thinking in that moment, and instead imagining it from a stranger’s point of view. If he was a Capitol citizen, sitting in their fancy sitting room, with not a care in the world, excitedly watching this sixteen-year-old boy being prepared to kill or be killed for sport…could he see the fear and uncertainty that Mycroft was undoubtedly feeling in those moments on-screen? Could he – could anyone – see the knowledge that all the world was suddenly against him in his eyes? Could they see every fiber of Mycroft’s being bracing for what was coming next? Could they possibly tell that Mycroft’s life expectancy was suddenly cut short?

Before he could figure it out, another thought surfaced in Mycroft’s head. One that, once thought, he couldn’t possibly go to sleep knowing:

Now, Mycroft was the only Hunger Games tribute without a mentor.

And so, with one last look into his own eyes, he went ahead and loaded up the next recap of the Hunger Games. At that moment, an Avox walked by, and Mycroft politely requested that they make him a cup of coffee, only because he didn’t know how to make one himself, but he had heard it would help keep him awake.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Dean Bainbridge made his second appearance the District 12 penthouse the next morning, just before dawn. Mrs. Hudson had been awake already, buzzing around the place, speaking so much to absolutely no one that Mycroft had to turn up the volume on the television just in order to focus, so when there was a knock on the door Mrs. Hudson was right there to answer it. They spoke for a few minutes, chatting and laughing as if they were dear friends who visited on a regular basis. Perhaps they did, but Mycroft didn’t care. Instead, Mycroft turned up the volume on the television a couple more notches, and he finally heard Mrs. Hudson leave the room to make sure Anthea was at least waking up.

“Good morning, Mycroft,” Dean greeted him, appearing behind the sofa Mycroft was sitting on.

Mycroft hummed in response, totally engrossed in the particularly clever strategy of the victor of that year that was currently being displayed on the screen, filing it away for later in his head.

“Oh, I wouldn’t pay much attention to that, if I were you,” Dean said, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“And why not? He wins, doesn’t he? Obviously it works out,” Mycroft argued, focusing again, just in time to see a nearly-undetectable miscalculation play out on-screen, that would have gotten the victor killed, if not for some extremely quick thinking and some very lucky circumstances.

Mycroft straightened up in his seat and turned around to see Dean smiling sheepishly back at him.

“I’ve watched them all, too,” he informed him, quietly. “I can answer any questions you might have –”

“I don’t have any,” Mycroft cut him off, turning back around. This, of course, was mostly true, except for one question, which grew more and more pressing in Mycroft’s mind with every word Dean Bainbridge spoke. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to watch this.”

“Yes, of course,” Dean said, taking a step back. “I’ll let you get back to it, then. Good luck.”

Mycroft hummed again in response, listening to Dean’s footsteps get farther away from him.

And suddenly, as Mycroft watched the screen, he couldn’t concentrate on anything going on within the Hunger Games. He’d seen so many victors, so many deaths, so many strategies and Arenas and so many tedious details that he really couldn’t care less about…

Mycroft needed sleep, but more than that, he needed his one question answered.

And so, he turned around in his seat once more.

“Wait, Dean –”

“Yes?” Dean replied, turning back around.

“I do have one question for you,” Mycroft admitted.

“Sure, what’s up?”

Mycroft glanced around, knowing that Mrs. Hudson would return with Anthea at any moment, and that there were at least two Avoxes running around the penthouse.

“Can we…Could we speak privately?”

Dean chuckled in response.

“That can’t be your question.”

“That isn’t an answer,” Mycroft shot back, and Dean chuckled again.

“Of course. Erm…the rooftop would be our best bet, I’ll just –”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Dean as he left to go let Mrs. Hudson and Anthea know that he was stepping out for a moment, astounded that this man was actually serious in bringing Mycroft up to the roof.

Before he could decide that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, after all, Dean returned and led Mycroft to a door with a small staircase that led up to the rooftop of the Training Center.

The roof was, as Dean had suspected, completely devoid of people, but Mycroft was surprised to see only a couple of cameras on the rooftop. Since his arrival at the Capitol, he noticed there were surveillance cameras everywhere, save for the bathrooms, for obvious reasons. Here, however, as long as Mycroft and Dean went to one of the camera’s blind spots, they were on the roof alone, except for a small rooftop flower garden that Mycroft was not expecting at all.

Which meant there were absolutely no witnesses. Mycroft glanced around at the waist-high borders that surrounded the edges of the rooftop. They were thirteen stories up; if Dean decided to shove him off, Mycroft would die immediately, and no one would know who did it –

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to push you off,” Dean said, as if reading his mind. “There’s Capitol technology that prevents anything thrown off to bounce back up. Watch –” Dean took a few steps toward the edge, then turned back to Mycroft when he realized he wasn’t moving. “Come on –” he said, coming back just to take Mycroft by the wrist and pull him along to the edge of the roof. “Can you catch?” he asked, taking off his watch.

“Yes?” Mycroft replied.

“Good,” Dean said, and tossed the watch over the edge of the roof. There was the sound of electricity as the watch fell down about a story, before reversing its course and launching itself back up to the roof, landing easily into Mycroft’s outstretched hand. “Any high drops in the Arena will be like that, too – thank you,” Dean said, taking back his watch and putting it back on his wrist. “It’s to keep any tributes from trying to off themselves. There was a girl last year who threw herself off the roof – came back with a couple of bruises but otherwise she was completely unharmed. You’ll also notice all the knife drawers are locked, and the prep team are the only people who can shave –”

“Why are you helping us?” Mycroft asked, cutting Dean off. “Why did you decide you’d try and mentor Anthea and me?”

Dean shrugged.

“Why not?” Mycroft narrowed his eyes, watching Dean carefully, and Dean shrugged again. “I dunno – because I’m a nice person, maybe?”

“If President Snow were to find out that you’re mentoring two tributes from a different District, you could very well get arrested; maybe even killed. A nice personality trait doesn’t relate to the situation. There must be a better reason.”

Dean shrugged again – a gesture that Mycroft was getting pretty sick of, at this point.

“Maybe I just thought you two were at an unfair disadvantage by _not_ having a mentor. Maybe I just wanted to be a decent person and help.”

At this, Mycroft scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Again, you’re ignoring the fact that you could be _killed_ for what you’re doing.”

“Maybe I don’t care,” Dean replied easily, meeting Mycroft’s eyes.

“That’s quite a lot of ‘maybes’; too many for someone who’s trying to mentor four tributes at once their first year mentoring,” Mycroft noted. “Besides, if you knew me at all you’d know that the disadvantage doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Dean asked; an open invitation to speak, for once, about himself, instead of the situation. Mycroft set his jaw, but Dean smiled in reply. “No, seriously, I want to know. Because, as you said, I _don’t_ know you. At all.”

“You don’t _need_ to know me,” Mycroft shot back. “As far as either of us are concerned, I am just a tribute from an opposing District.”

“I find that getting to know the tributes helps me mentor them,” Dean said, blatantly ignoring the word “opposing”. “It helps me find their strengths and weaknesses – just by talking to them. Treating them like human beings, instead of the cattle that the Capitol makes them out to be.”

Mycroft knew what he was doing, or trying to do.

“This is your first year mentoring,” Mycroft reminded him. “You don’t know if that’s the best tactic or not.”

“Well, that’s what my mentor did with me, last year, and look where I am,” he said, holding out his arms, gesturing to the world around him. Or, his existence in the world around them.

Mycroft crossed his arms in response, and Dean sighed, letting his arms fall down to his sides.

“I get it – why you’re so apprehensive. I’m a Career – I’m a victor – I could kick your skinny little white outlying-district ass in three seconds flat and then go have a beer and not even think about it. That’s it, right?” he asked, but they both knew he didn’t need to ask again. “I understand. But just because I’m a Career doesn’t mean that I’m automatically so selfish that I don’t see injustice when it’s laid out right in front of me.”

At this, Mycroft raised his eyebrows, suspicious.

“Not all Careers just want to go into the Arena and win the Games,” Dean went on, a smile playing at his face. “I just so happened to do exactly that.”

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, looking him over, making deduction after deduction in his mind, trying to find a flaw; trying to find something, _anything_ , that showed him that Dean wasn’t who he said he was. But there was nothing. It seemed that every fiber of Dean Bainbridge’s being was absolutely genuine, not just wanting to help, but eager to, like he had been born for this moment, for these Hunger Games, for this conversation. Mycroft still didn’t understand why, but, going by Dean’s responses, perhaps Dean didn’t know either. Perhaps, Dean was just that good of a person, living in a world where people that good didn’t exist. There was always something in it for them, which Mycroft had learned to expect.

“I’m still suspicious,” Mycroft finally said.

“That’s fine. Just let me help you – you don’t have to trust me. You don’t have to tell me anything about you if you don’t feel like it. Just listen to me, heed my advice. Disregard it if you want to. Either way you’re going into the Arena with some sort of plan. What do you have to lose?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, to tell Dean off, to inform him that he had a brother and a widowed mother back home who still needed him, but that would be revealing too much. He could at least humor him, Mycroft supposed.

“I still don’t understand, and I’m not one to say that often; in fact, I can’t remember the last time I uttered those words.”

“And why’s that?” Dean asked, the smile growing, just a little bit. He was thinking that he had won Mycroft over, obviously – that Mycroft was going to share his life story from start to finish that day, upon that roof. But Dean didn’t need to know Mycroft’s life. He didn’t need to know about the loss of his father or the lives of his mother or his brother or his life in District 12 or anything about him…

But, in a way, Dean was right. If he insisted upon mentoring Mycroft and Anthea (which he was very insistent upon; Mycroft was getting the feeling that even if he declined Dean still wouldn’t leave him alone), Mycroft could just disregard any unsound advice and make his own plans for the Arena. As Dean had said, either way he was going into the Arena: the place where plans went to die and improvisation and luck could very well save your life. Whatever Dean had in mind for a plan would probably become irrelevant as soon as the Hunger Games began; whatever happened after would be up to Mycroft and Mycroft alone. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to discuss ideas with, even if Mycroft could explore all the possibilities in his head much faster than Dean ever could.

Thinking of it that way, Dean was right. He had nothing to lose.

“Well, to be frank: I’m probably the smartest person you’ll ever meet,” Mycroft replied.

Dean’s smile widened.

“Intelligence is good,” he noted. “Sponsors really go for that.”

“I’m hoping it’ll be good enough to win,” Mycroft replied. “I suppose we will just have to see.”

 _We._ With just that one word, Mycroft seemed to single-handedly make Dean’s day, although Dean visibly tried not to show it.

“I take it the tapes kept you up all night,” he said instead.

“I normally don’t sleep at night,” Mycroft informed him, and Dean nodded, formulating a plan as he checked his watch.

“Well, unfortunately, you have group training today with the other tributes. As soon as you get back, take a couple hours. We’ll meet here at midnight,” he said, putting his hand out for Mycroft to shake.

Mycroft nodded. He hadn’t even taken the group training sessions into account when watching the tapes the night before. Maybe he did need a mentor, and not just Mrs. Hudson and her tapes. He glanced over the edge of the roof, at the sun just beginning to rise over the horizon, the light bouncing off the many windows of the many skyscrapers that littered the Capitol’s skyline, and then looked back at Dean, taking his hand.

“Midnight.”


	3. Similarities.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Dean discuss the events and the victor of the fiftieth Hunger Games; Mycroft reveals a theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ableism
> 
> Quick reminder: in Constantly, it's revealed that Charles Augustus Magnussen's brother, Hannibal Lecter Magnussen, won the 50th Hunger Games (the second Quarter Quell), which inserted more than a few Hannibal characters into this story, namely Will Graham, who was diagnosed with autism thanks to the Capitol. I suggest re-reading chapter 12 of Constantly for the full story if you want to refresh your memory.

“So: second day of training. How did that go?” Dean asked, sat in his chair in the edge of the garden on the rooftop of the training center a few nights later.

“Uneventful,” Mycroft replied simply from his chair across from him. And they had been; Mycroft had always been good at keeping a low profile; here it was no different. He and Anthea spoke from time to time as they crossed paths, but for the most part he stayed to himself, making deductions about the other Tributes as they came to him. Still, he had to have _something_ to report back to Dean. “I tried the archery station and was completely awful. Swords, however…”

“Weapon of choice, maybe?” Dean asked.

“Perhaps, if I can get to one,” Mycroft allowed.

“You might want to show it off to the Gamemakers the day after tomorrow,” Dean suggested, and Mycroft shrugged. “You’re really still going for this ‘average’ thing?”

“If it causes for everyone to overlook me, of course,” Mycroft replied.

It was Mycroft’s idea to be average. He absolutely did not want to show off; he had always told Sherlock not to show off when it mattered, so why would Mycroft go against his own advice, now? If Mycroft showed anyone how smart he could be, he would surely be painting a large target on his back. Dean, however, was concerned about the sponsors. Average tributes never received sponsors; Mycroft had to stand out somehow, and they both knew that Mycroft had the intelligence to gain more sponsors than a single tribute from District 12 had gotten in years. As far as Mycroft knew, Dean was still trying to find a way to compromise that Mycroft wouldn’t immediately shoot down.

Evidently, tonight wasn’t the night that Dean had found the argument for the debate, for he spent a moment watching Mycroft’s face in the semi-darkness the rooftop provided.

“You seem to have something on your mind tonight, Mycroft,” Dean said, finally, and Mycroft hated the way he could read him. He was Mycroft Holmes; no one could read him.

However, Dean could, and he was right.

“I watched the Fiftieth Hunger Games last night,” Mycroft revealed, and Dean did not seem surprised.

Despite having an honorary, “unofficial” mentor, Mycroft continued to watch the Hunger Games recap tapes in his free time, even though he got very little of it. However, that was alright; Mycroft wasn’t getting much sleep in the Capitol either way, even with the nightly midnight meetings with Dean. Watching the tapes helped Mycroft build his strategy, and gave him something to do besides ponder over the many different scenarios the following days could possibly bring.

By the fortieth Hunger Games, the details began to swim together in Mycroft’s mind, despite his best efforts to keep them all straight. It was all the same; twenty-four tributes went into an arena of some sort, alliances were made and broken, somebody did something smart or brave or were just extremely lucky, there was a final fight between the last two-to-four tributes, and then a victor was crowned. The recaps even took away the possibility to guess who in the group of tributes might win, for the recaps all focused on the victor from the moment the recap began. The only interesting recaps, in Mycroft’s mind, were the Quarter Quells: a Hunger Games every twenty-five years that promised to be like no other before it with a twist determined by the very first Gamemakers.

The first Quarter Quell’s twist, to remind the districts of the choices the rebels had made leading to death, was to force the members of each District to vote on which child they sent into the Hunger Games Arena. The victor of that year, Cameron Johnson from District 4, killed herself shortly after returning from the Hunger Games Arena; an act in which Mycroft completely understood; he himself couldn’t imagine having to live out a life alongside the people he knew that, in one way or another, wanted him dead. The second Quarter Quell’s twist, to remind the districts that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, sent twice as many tributes into the Hunger Games Arena. Mycroft had been alive for that particular Quarter Quell, but he had only been seven months old at the time and, unless some sort of miracle occurred, he would not live to see the third Quarter Quell take place.

“That was an interesting year,” Dean mused. “Lots of notable players.”

And there had been. There was eighteen-year-old Francis Dolarhyde from District 2, who was larger and stronger than all of the other tributes. There were Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller from District 3, who never left each other’s side, even in death during the bloodbath. There was Beverly Katz, a sixteen-year-old from District 5, who would’ve easily won the Hunger Games if she hadn’t thought she was clever enough to sneak up on a Career. There were Mason and Margot Verger, siblings from District 10, the former of which had volunteered to go into the Hunger Games Arena after the latter had been reaped. There was Reba McClane, a blind fourteen-year-old no one in District 11 volunteered for.

And then, last but not least, there was William Graham from District 4, and Hannibal Lecter Magnussen from District 1.

“There were many players in general,” Mycroft agreed. The bloodbath alone was a massacre, with twenty dead within the first ten minutes. The rest were killed off over the span of fifteen days, making the second Quarter Quell the longest Hunger Games in history.

Dean eyed Mycroft carefully.

“What’d you think of Hannibal?” he asked, and Mycroft glared at Dean’s shoes. What did Mycroft think of Hannibal Lecter Magnussen? There was not a word that described how disgusted he was with the victor of the Fiftieth Hunger Games, or with the method by which he killed the tributes that stood in his way.

“He should not have won. He definitely should not be a mentor, either,” he said, glancing up.

“I know of about ten Gamemakers that would probably agree with you,” Dean informed him. “All of which were fired for failing to kill him off before the final three.”

“I knew they tried to kill him.”

Of course the Gamemakers tried to eliminate Hannibal before he won the Hunger Games; they couldn’t have a cannibal living as a Hunger Games victor. However, since they failed to end his life and make it look like an accident, a cannibalistic victor was exactly what the Gamemakers received.

“Oh yeah, a few times, actually,” Dean agreed, nodding. “The lightning storm was the most obvious attempt, though.”

“That’s because they were the most desperate,” Mycroft said. “The amount of tributes were diminishing and their jobs were on the line.”

“Those poor bastards never stood a chance,” Dean muttered, shaking his head. “The Gamemakers _and_ the tributes – he was too smart for all of them.”

Dean was completely right; Hannibal had been too smart for them. Hannibal wasn’t the first tribute with cannibalistic tendencies; in fact, just a few years after the second Quarter Quell, the Hunger Games presented Panem with a tribute who had truly been insane. The boy’s name was Titus, hailing from District 6, and he died in a rockslide that Mycroft easily deduced was caused by the Gamemakers to ensure that he wouldn’t win. Mycroft was only just beginning to fully discover how terrifying being in the Hunger Games could be, but something about the Hunger Games affected the boy in a way that drove him to begin eating any tributes he killed. Hannibal, however, did not act as if the Hunger Games sent him over the edge into insanity. If anything, it seemed more likely that Hannibal had always had the desire to taste human flesh, and used the Hunger Games as an opportunity to fulfill his fantasy. He was calm and calculating, and forever curious of his fellow tributes; fascinated with the ability to manipulate and break them, especially –

“Four should’ve won that year,” Dean muttered bitterly, snapping Mycroft back to reality. “That other tribute, in the end? He was from my district.”

Ah yes, the tribute Hannibal had taken with him to the end. The Hunger Games was always a tricky place to make alliances, knowing that there could only be one winner and the losers had to pay with their lives. However, some Hunger Games saw alliances that carried through all the way to the end. Then there were a few Hunger Games where a career would choose a weaker tribute to save throughout the length of their time in the Arena, ensuring their victory. This is what the fourteen-year-old Hannibal chose to do with one of the youngest tributes that year, a thirteen-year-old boy with certain mental disabilities that just so happened to be from District Four. However, that other tribute had a name. A name that was important to Mycroft; one that he would never forget.

“William Graham,” Mycroft said, speaking the name out loud.

“Yeah, him,” Dean agreed, nodding.

“What did you think of him?” Mycroft asked, nonchalant, and Dean shrugged.

“As I said, he should’ve won that year. I mean, there were better tributes, especially from Four, but he was the one Hannibal chose to take with him, so…” he trailed off, pausing for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Mycroft lied, but Dean narrowed his eyes at him, tilting his head.

“Look, I may not know you that well but I do know you’re not one to ‘just wonder’ about anything, and you’re also not one to waste questions. You asked for a reason.”

Dean, of course, was absolutely right, and Mycroft hated that he was right. He hated that Dean knew Mycroft this well already, despite having only met a few days before.

However, Mycroft still replied with the truth.

“He just…reminded me of someone, that’s all,” he admitted quietly.

“From District Twelve?” Dean asked, jumping at the opportunity to make Mycroft talk about home.

“Yes, from District Twelve, obviously,” Mycroft replied.

“Someone close?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I don’t want to discuss who it is,” he shot back, and Dean leaned back in his seat, putting his hands up in defense.

“Sorry; I thought you wanted to talk about it, that’s all,” he said innocently.

“Well, I don’t,” Mycroft assured him, and Dean shrugged.

“I mean, you brought it up.”

“You asked me what I was thinking about, so I told you,” Mycroft said, his voice cold, then he sighed. A part of him supposed he agreed with Dean; if he really didn’t want to talk about it, he should have turned Dean away from the conversation when he insisted that Mycroft had something on his mind. “Yes, William Graham reminded me of someone from home, which makes me think that he has whatever William had. The autism.”

From the moment the boy was reaped, William Graham behaved differently than the other forty-seven tributes that year; avoiding eye contact, showing a sensitivity to changes in his environment, repeating phrases seemingly without his consent or knowledge, self-stimulating by flapping whenever the boy got overwhelmed, the list went on. When the citizens of the Capitol discovered that this tribute was different, the Gamemakers brought in the experts they needed to, and the diagnosis was broadcasted for all of Panem: William Graham was autistic. Mycroft had never heard the term before hearing it on the recap of the Hunger Games, but the Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith of Hunger Games’ past were happy to explain it all to the uneducated parts of Panem.

As Mycroft listened to their description and saw William Graham interact with the other tributes, he came to a realization: he saw his own brother, Sherlock Holmes, in the boy.

The theory was simple: due to the similarities between them, Sherlock might also have the disorder. However, without the Capitol to give Sherlock a proper diagnosis, he would never truly know for sure. Of course, he didn’t need the diagnosis, or even the knowledge that his brother fell on the spectrum, too; Sherlock was Sherlock, and that’s all that ever mattered to Mycroft.

That did not stop him from having the theory, however.

“Yeah, I’ve seen a couple people like Will in Four, too,” Dean said, making a face. “I can’t believe someone like him almost won the Hunger Games.”

“Better than a cannibal,” Mycroft muttered.

“Yeah, but still not ideal. The Capitol wants the best of the best to win, not –”

“Dean, I suggest you tread carefully,” Mycroft snapped quietly, and Dean cut himself off.

“You were close to this person, then, weren’t you?” Dean guessed, after a moment, and Mycroft grit his teeth.

“I _said_ I don’t want to talk about him.”

“That’s okay,” Dean replied. “But I can tell you wanted Will to win.”

“Of course I did,” Mycroft shot back.

“And not just because anything’s better than a cannibal.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, nearly spitting the word. “Yes, I wanted William Graham to win the Hunger Games, and not simply because he was the leftover that Hannibal Lecter Magnussen chose to drag to the end. I wanted him to win from the beginning, I was _hoping_ he would win, because, yes, he reminded me of someone from District Twelve, someone I’m close to. I was excited for him to win; I wanted to meet him, perhaps, if the opportunity ever arose. I was _expecting_ him to win. He was _smart,_ he was _different,_ and for half of a second he gave me hope for –” he caught himself, clamping his mouth closed before he could spill out Sherlock’s name, the name he refused to speak while in the Capitol. Once he gained the trust in his mouth that he needed in order to speak again, Mycroft continued. “Are you satisfied, now?” he asked Dean.

However, instead of reply, Dean watched Mycroft carefully, his eyes suddenly full of sympathy.

“He’s our age, isn’t he?” he asked, after a moment. “Or younger? Old enough to be in the reaping pool, or not quite there yet,” he guessed, and Mycroft set his jaw. He wasn’t going to confirm or deny Dean’s claims, and Dean knew that, so he moved on, unable to force the answer out of Mycroft. “Will might’ve won if it wasn’t for Hannibal,” Dean considered. “There aren’t many people like Hannibal, so…if your friend from home _does_ get reaped someday, he might be able to pull through.”

Mycroft closed his eyes in response. Sherlock getting reaped was not something he could afford to think about. Not here, not now.

“I’m sorry Will didn’t win, though,” Dean said quietly. “I’m sorry he couldn’t give you that hope for your friend.”

“I’m sorry Hannibal _did_ win,” Mycroft replied. “And I…also apologize for snapping at you. I shouldn’t have.”

Dean shrugged.

“Can’t really blame you; you’re under a lot of pressure, right now. Just know I’m in your corner, okay?”

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed with a nod.

“And I’m sorry, too, for what I said,” Dean went on, quietly. “I honestly don’t know where it came from – I wasn’t thinking. Will would’ve made a great victor.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. It wasn’t the best apology, especially considering that, until that moment, Mycroft didn’t believe that Dean had a single bigoted bone in his body. However, Dean did come from a Career District, and, whether he liked it or not, he shared some of the values the Careers had. According to what the Careers were brought up believing, Dean was correct: the victors of the Hunger Games _should_ be the best of the best, and that definition did not include people like William Graham, to them.

The fact that Dean apologized at all though, trying to retract what he said, did say a lot about Dean’s character. Not only Dean’s character, but who he wanted to be, and who he was trying to be.

Dean checked his watch.

“You should get some sleep. And I mean _really_ sleep, not just watch more Hunger Games recaps. You’ve got your training session with the Gamemakers in a couple of days, so you need your rest.”

“Dean, I must remind you: I don’t sleep,” Mycroft informed him.

“Make an attempt, then. Try. For me. And while we’re on the subject of favors, would you _please_ consider aiming for a training score higher than a six?” Dean asked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Even a seven might get you a sponsor that you wouldn’t have gotten with a six.”

“I’m content with a six,” Mycroft replied, rising from his seat. “If anyone would like to sponsor me they can make that decision once I’m in the arena.”

“But why not get a head start? You know the Careers are, you know that everyone else will try to. Why not you?” Dean asked, and Mycroft shrugged.

“Everyone in the Hunger Games arena will have a target painted on their back. I don’t need mine any bigger than it already is. I will show my true intelligence in the arena itself,” Mycroft said, the tone of finality evident in his voice.

“And maybe here with me,” Dean added, smirking.

This was true; Dean was the only person in the Capitol that Mycroft had shown his true colors to. Mycroft wasn’t sure how or when it happened, but despite their differences and their few similarities, Mycroft trusted Dean with his mind.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Mycroft said finally, turning to walk back to the door.

“Goodnight, Mycroft Holmes,” Dean called after him, and Mycroft could feel Dean’s eyes on him as he made his exit from the rooftop.

Yes, Mycroft trusted Dean almost completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some words about autism, if you're willing to read them:
> 
> First off, in case you didn't know, I'm autistic. Hi, how you doin'?  
> Though neither Sherlock in BBC Sherlock or WIll Graham in Hannibal were canonically autistic (Will Graham being the closest between the two with his "My horse is hitched to a post that is closer to Asperger's and autistics than narcissists and sociopaths" line in the first season's first episode, though it seems like all of his autistic tendencies were scrapped for seasons 2 and 3 (which I have a theory for but even though this is my Ted Talk this isn't THAT Ted Talk). I also just remembered John mentions Asperger's in Hounds of Baskerville but there's a pretty notable "?" afterwards and Sherlock never agrees or disagrees with the statement and its never brought up again), I headcanon Sherlock and Will Graham as autistic (and even Katniss Everdeen from the Hunger Games books). If you don't like that, oops on u but the best representation I get is The Good Doctor and Sheldon Cooper and Atypical (and the worst representation I get is Rainman and whatever the hell Sia's doing with this Music movie shit) so let me have this, please.  
> Anyways. Despite me being surrounded by ableism every day it was really hard for me to write /subtle/ ableism in Dean (and not emotionally, just like. To write it and have it sound human and not weird and like some ableist robot), so I view this chapter as one of the 3 weakest chapters (but not the weakest!), but I felt like it was important for Mycroft's story to include his theory for Sherlock, especially considering that this theory comes up later and is even mentioned in Constantly. Also, it's just weird for me to write about autism in general because I always feel like I'm turning it into an after school special or I get preachy or reading it back I'm like "...oh this is Too Weird" even if it describes stimming or things I just do on a day to day basis. So if this chapter makes you want to quit this fic, I'm really sorry please don't there are at least 20 better chapters I promise.
> 
> If you have any questions or thoughts or whatever, please share them in the comments. I'm pretty much an open book about my personal experience and I could go on about my autistic headcanons all day.


	4. Suicide.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has his Tribute Interview with Caesar Flickerman and learns some unfortunate news; Mycroft asks Dean for a favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide (obviously)

Once Mycroft’s private training session with the Gamemakers came to pass and he earned his completely average training score (a six, as he had planned), Dean and Mycroft made their plans for the tribute interview with Caesar Flickerman.

At first, Mycroft wanted to continue to remain as average as he could before stepping into the Hunger Games arena, but the two quickly came to a compromise: Mycroft could appear to be book smart during the interview. The other tributes would just see someone trying to appear smart for the sponsors, but the sponsors may actually hold onto Mycroft’s big words and deep thoughts, if he chose to use them in the interview.

Together, they ran through mock interview after mock interview, with Dean giving advice and criticisms and praise after each one, and Mycroft doing his very best to listen and follow his guidance, but then, the night before the interviews, Dean gave Mycroft one last piece of advice.

A piece of advice that Mycroft was planning on ignoring completely, until he was dolled up in makeup and a suit and on Caesar Flickerman’s stage. The man, oozing charisma and personality and making Mycroft feel like his own life was a complete and utter joke (just because of how much he felt like nothing more than a fictional character in a story that didn’t matter as long as it ended one way or another), asked Mycroft how he felt to be in the Hunger Games.

“May I be honest with you, Mr. Flickerman?” Mycroft asked.

“Why yes, of course!” Caesar replied, beaming, his expression so animated Mycroft vaguely wondered how a single face could be so malleable.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted, completely honestly, with none of the charm that he and Dean had practiced in his voice, and the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, anyway. Knowing there was no use in arguing that his feelings were real, he smiled with them. “But in all seriousness,” he went on as the crowd died down. “I’m meeting these tributes at the same time as you all. The tributes are already forming alliances and as I look around at these young, strong, intelligent people who maybe, in another life, I could see as my friends, I have to remind myself that all lives end. I have to remind myself that all hearts are broken, and caring is not an advantage.”

When Dean had first mentioned making a statement about how much he liked his fellow tributes, Mycroft had scoffed, rolling his eyes.

_“They all want to kill me, Dean; why should I care about them? The only one I’ve really talked to is Anthea, anyway.”_

_“You don’t have to be their best friends or anything, but the sponsors don’t want to support some antisocial psychopath. If they think you care too much, though, they’ll think that you’re going against the Games. You have to find a happy medium, you understand?”_

Mycroft, of course, did understand. And his words seemed to win Caesar over completely.

“All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage,” Caesar echoed. “That is a nice phrase – very true, Mycroft, very true.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mycroft agreed, but then paused. If he opened his mouth again, it was going to lead them to a very personal topic of conversation; one that Mycroft didn’t want to have.

This was the part of the interview Mycroft had been dreading. This was the advice that Dean had given to Mycroft the night before, the advice that Mycroft wanted so badly to ignore.

_“Mycroft…” Dean had started to say, and Mycroft stood up, knowing where this was going, trying to avoid it for the umpteenth time._

_“So are we meeting tomorrow after the interview? I think that would be best, just so we can go over what happens the next morning –”_

_“Mycroft, listen to me,” Dean cut him off in a voice that sounded so different from the other times he had tried to broach the subject – authoritative, almost – that Mycroft finally looked at Dean, knowing that he had no other choice. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but, Mycroft…they’re going to want you to talk about your family,” he said, and Mycroft looked away, down at the ground beneath his feet. “And I know that’s a touchy subject for you, and I_ know _you don’t trust anyone here enough to talk about them but if you don’t bring them up during the interview, then Caesar will, and he won’t just drop the subject when you try to avoid it.”_

 _“Why?” Mycroft asked through gritted teeth. “They don’t deserve to know them! They don’t deserve to know about either of them! They don’t even deserve to know_ me _!”_

_“I know, Mycroft, I know, trust me – they just want to know that you’re coming home to someone. They want to know that you’re human. The more human you are the more sponsors will –”_

_“And what if I’m not human?!” Mycroft exclaimed, rage boiling up inside of him._

_Dean merely smiled._

_“And what if you are?” he asked, quietly, gently._

_Mycroft glared at Dean in reply, staring him down, as if looks alone could kill. He wasn’t human – he was stone. He had to be stone –_

_“You only have to give them a little bit. No names, no details. They just want to know they exist and that you give a shit.”_

_“Right,” Mycroft muttered._

_“Do you want to do another run-through?” Dean asked, hopeful, but Mycroft shook his head._

_“I’ll be fine,” Mycroft replied, turning away. “Goodnight, Dean.”_

_As he went through the door back to the penthouse, Mycroft made what he thought was his final decision: no one would know about his family. Sherlock and his mother were_ his, _and no one else’s. If the Capitol_ really _wanted their names, they could easily look up the plethora of information they had on both of them._

However, something in him, something deep inside of him that he didn’t quite recognize, suddenly wanted to follow Dean’s advice. If anything, he wanted to speak about them, on his own terms, instead of waiting for someone like Caesar Flickerman to attempt to coax it out of him.

“But is it entirely?” he finally asked, and Caesar raised his eyebrows.

“Is it?”

“This is what I’ve been beginning to question. I have a brother and a mother to come home to. I know I may not be the strongest or the most skilled or the most popular, but I do firmly believe that I am going to win this, for them. This makes me wonder if caring is more of an advantage than I thought it could be. The careers were trained for the Hunger Games; this is what they do. But I’ve found that love is also a vicious motivator.”

“Another beautiful phrase, Mycroft. Tell me, _where_ do you think of these things?”

“If I told you, I’d probably be lying. I honestly have no idea,” Mycroft replied, and the crowd laughed again.

“Now, you mentioned you had a brother, Mycroft. What’s his name? How old is he?” Caesar asked, and Mycroft swallowed, silently cursing Dean. He said he didn’t need to give his name, and here Caesar was, asking him about it like he had a right to know.

“Sherlock is nine,” Mycroft replied.

“Such a bright young age,” Caesar said, and Mycroft fought the urge to scoff. Sherlock, bright? Bright didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Indeed. I’m so worried about him. I worry about him constantly, even when I was home. And I miss him, dearly. My mother, as well,” he revealed, before he could stop himself.

“Tell us about your mother, Mycroft,” Caesar pressed, and Mycroft chuckled.

“I honestly don’t know how she does it. We’ve been such a handful to take care of, Sherlock especially. Our father passed away a few years ago; it’s just been her and us since then,” he said, surprising even himself. He hadn’t mentioned his father’s death in years, which led him to vaguely wonder if the Capitol had something in their drinks to force tributes to speak freely, but he quickly disregarded it. Even if it _was_ true, he couldn’t dwell on it, now. “She’s an amazing mother. I can’t wait to see her again,” he finished quickly, looking up at Caesar, who was looking back at Mycroft with solemn eyes.

Solemn? Why solemn? Perhaps because he didn’t expect Mycroft to return from the Arena, or because he felt bad that Mycroft actually thought he could return? Sure, his training score was merely a six, but Mycroft had planned it out to be that way –

“Well, Mycroft, unfortunately, you won’t be able to see your mother again,” Caesar informed him, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes, puzzled. Dean had told him so many times that Caesar didn’t play favorites; that he wouldn’t try to dissuade Mycroft if he mentioned the idea of winning the Hunger Games.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Mycroft, I’m so sorry to say this, but we’ve gotten word from Peacekeeper officials down in District Twelve that your mother has passed away,” Caesar informed him, eyes still stupidly somber.

If the audience made any noise, Mycroft couldn’t hear it, for he could feel himself suddenly being transported back to the _first_ time one of the Holmes parents unexpectedly passed away…

_It was almost comedic how Mycroft knew the sound of the sirens signifying an emergency situation in the mines despite never having heard them before in his life. They were talked about, of course; his parents and his teachers had told Mycroft what they were and what they meant, but Mycroft had never heard the sound before that day, the middle of June, when Mycroft was only eleven years old._

_He was in class when the sirens began to sound, and the second they reached his ears, Mycroft jumped from his desk and raced from the classroom without being dismissed, all thoughts of lessons and learning forgotten for the day as he ran to Sherlock’s preschool classroom. On the first day of school, nearly ten months previous, as the two brothers walked to school, Mycroft had warned Sherlock about the sirens, telling him that, if they ever sounded while he was in school, he needed to stay in his classroom and wait for his brother to come to retrieve him. He had sworn to him that he would always come to retrieve him, no matter what; he just needed to stay in the classroom until then._

_Hopefully, now that the moment those instructions were suddenly deemed relevant had arrived, Sherlock would remember them._

_When Mycroft first entered the preschool room and couldn’t immediately see his brother gathered with all of the other children in his class on the rug in the middle of the room, Mycroft internally panicked. The hallways were now filled with panicked students trying to fight their way to the nearest exit, and Sherlock was in the middle of that, searching for his brother when Mycroft had_ told _him to_ stay _–_

_He then made eye contact with Sherlock’s teacher, Miss Kohler (who was actually married but Miss was easier for the four-year-olds to pronounce). The woman recognized Mycroft immediately; he had been picking Sherlock up from his classroom every day since the beginning of the school year. Therefore, she knew exactly who he was looking for._

_“He’s under the table,” she said, her eyes filling up with tears as she spoke, and Mycroft instantly deduced why: her husband worked in the mines, the same mines that were now in a state of emergency._

_In thanks, Mycroft placed his hand on her arm, just for a second, before turning his attention to the table in the corner of the room, where, once Mycroft knelt down, he could see his brother, curled into a ball, his eyes tightly shut and his hands clamped over his ears._

_Mycroft too crawled under the table, softly grasping his brother’s shoulder, only speaking once Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, recoiling at the touch._

_“It’s me; Sherlock, we’ve got to go –”_

_“It’s loud,” Sherlock whimpered in return, and Mycroft nodded._

_“I know, but I’m here, now. Come on,” he said, and Sherlock let him gently pull him out from under the table. He then gathered the boy in his arms and, with a nod to his teacher, he took Sherlock into the fray, carrying him out of the school and down to the entrance of the mines where they met up with their mother._

_Mycroft did not let go of the boy for nearly sixteen hours as they waited for the elevator to the depths of the mines to produce the survivors of the explosion that had taken place within. He held the boy’s hand, squeezing it every time a new group of wounded miners reached the surface and reunited with their families. He hugged him tightly whenever Sherlock felt the need to ask “Where’s Daddy?”. He let Sherlock use him as a pillow as they spent the night waiting for any news (their mother had also told Mycroft to sleep as well, promising to wake him up whenever the elevator returned to the surface, but Mycroft couldn’t rest for the entire night)._

_It was only at dawn that the mine captain approached the waiting Holmes family to break the news: the mines had been completely searched, and there were no more survivors in the mines._

_The explosion killed eleven people, including Mr. Holmes, Mycroft and Sherlock’s father._

And now, their mother was dead, too.

“Oh – oh god.” Even his own voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a tunnel.

He couldn’t hear anything clearly – see anything clearly – feel anything besides a weight in his stomach that wasn’t there seconds before, for just a couple of moments, as question after question flooded his mind.

Why did she die?

Was this why she didn’t see him before he left District 12?

If she had been dead this long, where was Sherlock?

Was someone taking care of him, or was he by himself in their home in the Seam, watching this broadcast alone and afraid?

Was he alright, if only physically?

How did it happen?

How could she?

_How –?_

“How? How could this happen?” he asked, vaguely remembering that Dean had told him not to touch his face during the interview, not to mess up the makeup that had been so carefully applied by his prep team.

“Mrs. Holmes took her own life, very shortly after your name was drawn at the reaping ceremony. Your brother found her,” Caesar continued.

“Oh god...oh god...” Mycroft whispered, feeling so incredibly stupid that that was the only thing he could say. Sherlock was _alone_ and Mycroft was miles and miles away, surrounded by people he didn’t know in a place he didn’t understand, trying not to cry on national television while he learned that his _mother was dead_ …

“This must be a terrible time for you, Mycroft, but think of your brother. Poor, nine-year-old Sherlock. What would you say to him?” Caesar asked, trying to turn this moment of devastation into something even slightly worthy of the entertainment they craved.

_Sherlock._

He imagined his brother, alone in the Seam, sitting in front of their black and white television, surrounded by the blankets of the people who were no longer with him, watching Mycroft react to their mother’s death. He didn’t even know how to turn on the heat stove; winter was going to kill him. He knew what tesserae was but not how it worked; if he ran out of food he’d starve. If Mycroft died, he’d be trying to fend for himself in a world that never once looked out for him.

Mycroft had to help Sherlock while he still could.

He glanced around, finding one of the many cameras that were pointed at him, and stared into it directly, knowing that Sherlock would understand: this was a message specifically for him.

“Sherlock...” he said quietly, eyes filling with tears. “I’m coming back. I promise you, I’m going to win this for you. You won’t be alone for long, please don’t worry. Take care of yourself, just worry about that, Sherlock. Worry about yourself; no one else, not even me. I’m _going_ to come back, I have no doubt about it,” he wanted to end it there, with the promise that would hopefully give Sherlock a breath of relief with the knowledge that Mycroft knew what he was doing, but he also knew that he was still on national television, under the eyes of the sponsors. “I love you, little brother. With all my heart.”

There was complete and utter silence, just for a moment, and then there was Caesar Flickerman, bringing Mycroft back into the reality of the situation:

“You seem to be a little over-confident, Mycroft. Do you think that’s going to hurt you in the Hunger Games?”

“No, Mr. Flickerman,” Mycroft said, voice colder than he had wanted it to be, but he pressed on. “That’s not over-confidence, I assure you.”

“What is it, then?”

“Desperation,” he replied, looking him in the eyes. “I need to win. I have to, for Sherlock. There is no other option – I have to live and breathe and fight as hard as I can for him, until I’m home and safe with him in District Twelve. That’s it. End of discussion,” he said, and Caesar seemed to pick up on the hint that Mycroft was dropping.

“Well, then, I wish you the best of luck, Mycroft Holmes,” Caesar said, and they both rose to shake hands once more, before Mycroft was finally allowed to leave the stage.

He heard Caesar behind him and on the various displays around him backstage, repeating the words that Mycroft had previously spoken to him on stage, giving his opinion, but Mycroft couldn’t care less about what Caesar Flickerman, or any other Capitol citizen, had to say about him.

He ignored Mrs. Hudson, ready to give condolences that he didn’t want to hear. He ignored Anthea, who was the only person who might have any idea what he was going through. He ignored everyone, except for Dean Bainbridge.

“Roof. Now,” Mycroft hissed as walked by Dean’s back, so low that none of the other tributes could hear him. He didn’t wait for a reply, or even break his stride as he made a beeline for the door.

Mycroft didn’t even make an appearance at the penthouse, instead ascending straight to the roof, where he stayed, pacing back and forth across the roof, crying on and off, waiting for Dean, who arrived an understandable ten minutes later.

“Mycroft – I am _so_ sorry – I had no idea –” Dean started as he walked through the door to the roof, but Mycroft didn’t want to hear it.

“How could she do this?!” Mycroft roared, tears rolling down his face. “How _could she?!”_

“To you?” Dean asked, sitting in his usual chair next to the rooftop garden.

“No, to Sherlock! Christ, Dean, he’s _nine!_ He’s not even old enough to be reaped and he’s _alone_ –”

“Doesn’t District Twelve have a community home or something? I mean, we have one in Four – Why are you laughing?” Dean asked, mid-sentence, for as he mentioned the very idea of Sherlock living in the community home, Mycroft finally stopped pacing and covered his eyes with one hand, chuckling to himself; a sound completely warped by grief. After a moment, Mycroft pulled his hand away from his face to look at Dean.

“You don’t know my brother,” he said, finally.

“I imagine he’s like you?” Dean asked.

“Yes, he is. I’m the smarter one, between us, but he’s not far behind. He sees what I see and knows what I know, for the most part; his greatest flaw, however, is that he cannot keep his mouth shut. He opens his mouth when it’s imperative that he keep whatever information he has to himself, and that makes him _a lot_ more enemies than it does friends.”

Dean nodded, finally understanding.

“I can imagine.”

“No, you can’t,” Mycroft shot back. “You have no idea. I cannot put the amount of days Sherlock’s returned home from school with bruises from the beatings his bullies have given him while his teachers have turned their backs on him into numbers; that’s _his_ Hunger Games, and he lives through them every day. Those bullies, or at least, most of those bullies, live in District Twelve’s community home. If Sherlock stepped through those doors? If he tried to stay _the night?_ There’s no telling what those children would do to him while yet _another_ adult turns their back on him. He could be on death’s door –” he started before he realized his mistake, “– no, he _is_ on death’s door, and he still wouldn’t go within thirty feet of that building, even if that is the one place that might be able to keep him alive with the promise of a meal. He’s alone, Dean,” he said, finally stopping in front of the chair that he normally claimed as his own, sinking down onto it, putting his head in his hands. “May I be completely candid with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Dean replied, and Mycroft took a deep breath, hoping to keep himself from crying even more than he already had.

It didn’t work.

“I…I’m afraid, Dean,” he said, finally. “I’ve tried so hard to not feel it but…I’m so scared. I need to survive; if I die Sherlock will have no one. I _have to_ get back to him.”

“You have to win the Games in order to do that, Mycroft –”

“I know, and that’s what I’m afraid of. It’s like

I said on stage: the career tributes have been training for this day for years.”

“But you’ve been saying since day one that you’re smarter than them, and you have Sherlock –” Dean said, and Mycroft bit his tongue in the effort to keep him from yelling at Dean for speaking his name, reminding himself that he was just trying to help. “You have more at stake. They see the Games as a game, nothing more.”

“A game they have to win,” Mycroft corrected him. “A game they know _how_ to win.”

“You know how to survive, which, in my opinion, is what makes a winner.”

Mycroft finally picked his head up to look at Dean, wanting to ask the most illogical question he had come up with since arriving at the Capitol; the question that valued Dean’s opinion over his own, and the facts that surrounded him. He fought against the urge, until Dean finally spoke.

“I’m sorry about your mother, Mycroft. I can’t imagine how you feel – if it was my mom, just because I got reaped…my confidence would be shattered.”

“That’s not why she did it,” he said, reminding himself as well. He _knew_ that wasn’t why she did it. “She believed in me, I know she did. She just…she’s been through so much. She already lost my father and she already lost my…” he cut himself off before he could mention baby Eurus. He had mentioned everyone else in his family to the Capitol; he refused to speak of her, too. “Even if the chance was small, I can understand why she couldn’t take it the risk. Why she didn’t. I understand, I just…I wish she hadn’t left Sherlock alone. I wish she would’ve stayed around, for him.”

“I’m sorry she didn’t,” Dean said, quietly.

They sat for a moment in silence, allowing for Mycroft to wipe his tears, allowing for him to think for a moment; to consider the what-ifs that swarmed his mind, sorting through them, and finding something in the shape of a solution.

“Dean…” he said, finally.

“Yes?”

“…If I don’t come out of the Arena alive…” he started, still unsure of whether or not he actually wanted to ask for what he was considering asking for. “…and you can refuse, of course, but…” he took a deep breath, forcing the request out before he disregarded it completely. “…could you possibly watch over Sherlock?” he asked.

Dean raised his eyebrows in response.

“You don’t have to adopt him or anything, I wouldn’t ask you to do that, but just to make sure he has food in his stomach and that he has a roof over his head. That’s all I ask. I just want to know that he’ll be okay if I’m not there.”

It was the only solution that made sense to Mycroft. He and Lindsay had never discussed looking after Sherlock if he didn’t return, for Mycroft had always assumed that Sherlock would have his mother, not to mention the fact that it was obvious to Mycroft that Sherlock wasn’t Lindsay’s biggest fan, and would probably give her a hard time if she even tried to look after him. Even if Mycroft _had_ asked her, though, he probably still would’ve asked Dean for help, for Dean Bainbridge had things that no one in District 12 had: Dean had money and immunity. Just by looking at him, Dean was now rich enough to afford body modifications and nice Capitol clothes; he could surely set a little money aside for Sherlock and still live as comfortably as he had, before. Even more so, Dean was a victor of the Hunger Games; his name would never find itself in a reaping pool, again. The only other person Mycroft could trust even slightly with Sherlock was Lindsay, but she still had two more reapings to survive, and even though the chances of her being reaped were small, Mycroft, sitting on the Training Center’s roof, set to go into the Arena the next morning, could no longer say that the chances were virtually impossible.

He watched Dean as he considered Mycroft’s request, knowing full well that Dean could very possibly say no. Sherlock was nine, barely old enough to take care of himself, and Dean had casually mentioned before that he was the youngest member of his family; he had never taken care of anyone in his life, hadn’t needed to, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly the easiest child by any means. If Mycroft had a choice, he wouldn’t put the responsibility of Sherlock onto anyone. Unfortunately, though, like most things these days, Mycroft didn’t have a choice. He had to at least ask, for Sherlock’s sake.

He was about to remind Dean that he had every right to deny Mycroft’s request when Dean finally spoke.

“…Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Of course I will, if it comes to it.”

“Thank you –” Mycroft started, allowing a bit of relief to flood through his veins, just for a moment.

“But Mycroft?” Dean asked, cutting Mycroft off.

“Yes?”

“You’re going to get out of this,” he said, the smallest of smiles appearing on his face, and Mycroft grimaced in response.

He had to get out; whether Dean had agreed to watch over Sherlock or not, he had no choice.

Mycroft Holmes had to win the Hunger Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the exchange between Mycroft and Caesar Flickerman sounded at all familiar to you that's because it's the same exchange we see from Sherlock's point of view in the second part of the prologue in Sentiment!  
> Time is weird happy new year!


	5. Arena.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's memories of surviving the Sixty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games.

Mycroft was suspicious about the contents of his Arena when his stylist, Pierre, gave him a heavy coat and thick, waterproof pants to put on for the Arena the morning of the Hunger Games. It was the beginning of July; he didn’t need a coat like the one he was given. He didn’t need a coat at all, actually, unless there was a specific reason.

His suspicions (and fears) were all confirmed when Pierre gave him a pair of snow boots. Yes, it was July, and summer had set upon Panem for the long haul, but the Capitol’s Gamemakers could do anything they wanted, and so they made it snow in the Arena.

When Mycroft rose out of the ground on his platform, along with the twenty-three other tributes, he was momentarily blinded by the bright white light from the sun reflecting off of the snow that covered every inch of the Arena.

He held his hand up to his face, trying to help his eyes adjust, careful not to move his feet as the countdown began.

He could see the Cornucopia ahead of him, the ground around it littered with weapons and supplies, but the things that were legitimately useful were only in the area closest to the gigantic metal funnel, and the best things only existed inside the structure.

Mycroft scanned the area, searching for anything that he could take without getting killed. There was a backpack, with a decent hunting knife attached, but that was also in the direct line of sight of one of the careers from District 2, so that was out of the question. There was another, smaller backpack, which was closer, but it was a loud orange color that immediately took it out of the running, in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Ten…Nine…”

He was just about to give up hope, thinking it might be better to just vacate the premises to avoid the Bloodbath altogether and brave the elements unaided, but then something caught his eye – it was pretty far, but it was practically straight ahead in front of him, like it was put there for him to take: a silver sword, sticking out of the snow, with a very small drawstring bag tied to the hilt.

“…Eight…Seven…”

The snow was about ankle deep around the Cornucopia, but from looking around the area he could see that the snow quickly rose to be about knee-deep, but Mycroft wouldn’t have been surprised to see it get as high as his waist in other places of the Arena. The answer as to why the snow was so shallow here was simple: it was so everyone could run without getting slowed down; so the Capitol would have the true Bloodbath that they craved.

“…Six…Five…”

He could make it to the sword pretty easily, as long as he ran – no, sprinted – in and out of the circle the platforms created. But running wasn’t one of Mycroft’s strong suits; even little Sherlock was faster than him. He was suddenly kicking himself for not utilizing the many treadmills that were in the training room.

“…Four…Three…”

Mycroft took a deep breath. He had to breathe. He couldn’t panic; he had to focus. He needed to get home to Sherlock, no matter what it took.

“…Two…”

For just a moment, Mycroft listened to the stillness of it all, the snow quieting the normal noises the world provided, as if the earth itself honed in on the countdown that echoed around them.

And then, he got ready to run.

“…One.”

* * *

Seven people were killed that morning alone, which was an unnaturally low kill count for a Bloodbath, but Mycroft was simply thankful that he wasn’t part of the seven, and that he had gotten the sword and bag he had been aiming for. The bag was even useful, containing a small medical kit about the size of Mycroft’s palm, a few granola bars, and a friction-activated warming packet. Mycroft wished it had contained a blanket or something, but he was grateful for what it _did_ contain, the warming packet especially. There was no need for a thermos, for there was water all around them, just in the form of snow.

Most of the Arena’s snow reached waist-level, just like Mycroft had predicted when he was standing on the platform, but there were places – mostly under trees or by the icy lake that seemed to be the center of the Arena – where the snow’s levels were lowered. Mycroft found the safest places to sleep were under the frozen pines that littered the Arena, where the snow weighed down the branches so low that the bottom ones reached the ground. The only truly annoying bit about the snow was the very obvious trail Mycroft literally could not keep from making as he walked. At first, he considered the obvious walking backward method of travel, but considering where he was and how vigilant he needed to be, completely facing away from anything he could possibly be walking right into didn’t seem like the smartest plan. He genuinely tried to cover up his tracks as he walked, but the snow was too deep to easily cover up, which frustrated Mycroft to no end. Finally, he settled with just wandering aimlessly, walking in circles and abruptly stopping and retracing his steps, so that if anyone tried to follow his trail, they would quickly become so confused they just might give up and move on to easier prey.

* * *

It took about a day in the Arena for him and Anthea to run into each other, and once they did, and they realized that they weren’t about to kill each other, Anthea asked if they could stay together. Everything in Mycroft wanted to say no; he had to be alone, because he had to leave the Arena alive, and there could only ever be one winner of the Hunger Games. He couldn’t imagine him and Anthea making it to the final two; he couldn’t imagine killing her. However, there was something in him, deep inside, that pulled at his heartstrings; heartstrings that were frozen over from not only the cold, but by their situation, and by Mycroft’s life before his name was ever drawn.

Anthea was thirteen. She was a child, still. It wasn’t as heartbreaking as when there was a twelve-year-old in the Arena (and a couple had made it in, this year), but she was still young. Too young for Mycroft to just abandon her.

So, Mycroft reluctantly agreed, and Anthea became his shadow. She walked in his footsteps almost exactly, so it would seem like Mycroft was still on his own, and quickly became used to the patterns Mycroft had accumulated from trying to throw people off. The girl didn’t talk much, which was so different from Sherlock that Mycroft was content with the change of pace.

Of course, that didn’t mean he didn’t miss the sound of Sherlock’s voice. In fact, he missed every single thing about him. He even missed the things that he thought were so annoying just weeks ago. He would pay to be irritated by him, now. He would kill to see his smile one more time.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what he had to do.

* * *

Anthea McAllister was killed after two days with Mycroft. She was walking behind him as they searched for food, as she usually did, and another tribute, one much more persistent when it came to following the trails made by Mycroft, stabbed Anthea in the back. She barely gave any warning, just a single utterance of his name, as if she about to ask Mycroft to look and see if what she was feeling was actually happening; a sound that would haunt Mycroft for the rest of his life. Mycroft quickly spun around to see two things happen simultaneously: Anthea collapse to the ground, and another tribute lunge at him, blood-soaked knife in hand.

Fortunately, Mycroft was faster than her, and she was too committed to her move to change her course of action. The girl; older than him, probably from District Three or even District One, practically threw herself into his sword, impaling herself. Mycroft merely finished the job, applying the right amount of pressure to make sure a few vital organs were punctured.

He did it all with a straight face, and then he took a step back, turned himself around, and continued walking on, knowing he would never see her again. There were no tears shed afterwards, for Anthea or himself. Just like he had said during the interview with Caesar, dying and killing in the Arena was inevitable.

No, he didn’t think about Anthea, or the other tribute he had killed. Of course, he felt the remorse, but anyone watching him would never have known. He was always being watched, even as he hid for the night under the frozen pines, where he listened to the Capitol’s trumpets announcing any deaths for the day. Mycroft never watched the announcements, however; perhaps it was a poor decision on his part, knowing that he could keep a mental count of who was left and know who he might be up against the next day, but he didn’t really care. They didn’t matter; he knew just by looking at them that he was smarter than them. They were just bodies in the way of getting him back to Sherlock.

* * *

One night, just minutes after Mycroft was able to ignore the cold just enough to begin his dreamless doze he called sleep, he was quickly awakened by a sharp, whistling wind that found its way even into Mycroft’s hiding place under the shelter of a frozen pine tree. His eyelids fluttered open as he hugged himself tighter, waiting for the wind to die down so he could try to sleep again, but the wind didn’t let up.

In fact, it seemed to sound more like a wailing, now.

And it seemed to be coming closer.

Keeping his fingers curled around his sword, Mycroft crawled to the curtain of drooping snowy branches and parted them just enough to let the light of the full moon in, and he fought the urge to gasp aloud.

In the light of the moon, Mycroft spotted a tribute stumbling through the snow about two hundred feet away, which wasn’t exactly a startling sight, until Mycroft saw what was following the tribute. It was a white figure that stood about three times the size of the tribute, traveling through the snow as if it was nothing, with dark, sunken eyes and a jaw that nearly unhinged to let out the ghastly high-pitched wailing sound that Mycroft had once mistaken for the howling of the wind. For years Mycroft had watched the Capitol unleash their muttations into various Arenas, but he had never seen one in person, until now. He had thought they were terrifying to look at on the Holmes’ small, black-and-white television, but as he watched the muttation reach the tribute, hearing the tribute’s scream harmonizing with the muttation’s haunting melody…

Mycroft burst from his hiding place, running in the opposite direction as fast as he could, despite all the elements against him, as he heard the tribute’s cannon echo in the sky around him. He went for what felt like two miles like this, running in a straight line, not caring about who followed him as long as he was putting distance between him and the muttation, until he could run no longer, his limbs dragging with exhaustion.

At this point in the Hunger Games, Mycroft had formed a ritual for finding a suitable place to sleep in the frozen pines that littered the Arena: firstly, he would find an area where the pines grew in great abundance, and then he would begin to circle each and every tree, sometimes crawling underneath the lower branches and then leaving the way he came, creating a trail to look as if he could be under any of them, as opposed to just one. When he found the tree he chose to sleep under, he would create a trail similar to the others, circling the tree before finding a place to enter his newest sanctuary. The process itself took half an hour each evening; a half an hour which Mycroft could not lend, tonight.

Soon after Mycroft decided that he was mostly confident that the muttation was no longer a threat to him (for he knew better than to be completely confident of anything in a Hunger Games Arena), Mycroft encountered an area littered with frozen pines. It was there that he, completely fatigued, crawled under one of the first trees he encountered, curling into a ball once more, and finally shivered himself to sleep.

* * *

Mycroft only received one sponsor gift during his time in the Arena, which was more than he was ever expecting. It was his fifth day in the Arena, and his fingers were slowly turning a slight blueish color under his gloves, and he didn’t dare check on his toes. Although he hadn’t been watching the nightly overhead announcements that showed exactly who was in the Arena, he had been counting the cannon blasts that echoed throughout the Arena with each death that occurred, and he knew that he was part of the final six.

The gift was more than he could ever hope for: it was a hot meal. Someone had made him a plate of the Capitol’s food, complete with roasted steak and vegetables and a bowl of soap. Mycroft hid into the pines early that night, setting the platter down on top of his frozen feet and digging into the meal, trying to absorb the warmth anyway he could before scarfing the food down.

He only paused when he saw that there was a note that someone had tied onto the handle of his fork, typed onto a piece of cardstock, simply reading three little words that seemed to send a wave of relief throughout Mycroft’s soul itself: _Sherlock is safe._

Sherlock was safe. Sherlock was safe, and _someone_ in the Capitol knew that, and not only knew it, but cared enough about Mycroft’s mental state to alert him of this news. He was safe; Sherlock was _safe._ The Capitol had obviously taken the trip to District 12 to interview Sherlock for the final six. The world had seen Sherlock, and as much as Mycroft hated Sherlock being exposed to the life Mycroft was now forced to live in, he was actually, genuinely thankful. He was safe; he wasn’t starving to death alone in the shack they called home, he wasn’t beaten to a pulp by the boys in the community home, he was _safe!_ As Mycroft traced his fingers over the three words that made all the difference in the world to him, he noticed something else, too.

Mycroft had watched the Hunger Games for years; he had seen many sponsor gifts received throughout that time, and he had seen the various cards that came with them. Each and every card that came with a sponsor gift always contained the name or the signature or the initials of the mentor or mentors who sent out the gift, but, since Mycroft had no official mentor, the space under the message was blank. At least, it seemed blank to anyone watching through the screen. But as Mycroft traced his fingers over the card, he just barely felt the letters _D.B._ debossed into the card.

Dean Bainbridge. Dean was still looking out for Mycroft, and was even sticking to his word that he’d keep an eye on Sherlock, even while Mycroft was still alive.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered, keeping his eyes on the words that he kept reading, over and over again.

Sherlock is safe.

* * *

At some point over his days in the Arena, Mycroft made the decision that he would never complain about being too warm ever again. The summer heat in District 12 could reach one hundred and fifty degrees, and he wouldn’t say a word. He could be sweating so badly that any clothes he wore stuck to him automatically from all the perspiration, and he wouldn’t care. Hell, he could even be on fire, his clothes and skin set aflame, and he’d let it happen, simply because anything was better than the cold.

Anything was better than this.

* * *

On Mycroft’s last day in the Arena, the Capitol tried to lure him out, claiming there was something he needed back at the Cornucopia. When the announcement rang out through the Arena, urging the final three tributes to retrieve the item they needed, Mycroft scoffed to himself. There wasn’t anything in the world that the Capitol had that Mycroft even remotely needed. Sure, his toes were probably at the risk of amputation at this point, and his teeth were chattering so hard that he was pretty sure he had chipped a tooth at some point over the last few days, but the only thing he needed – _really_ needed – was to be back home with Sherlock.

He knew their game; he knew that it was all just a ploy to get the three tributes to emerge from their hiding places. Most importantly, he knew that the other two tributes were probably going to fall for it, and make their way to the Cornucopia to retrieve their items.

Not Mycroft, however. He was going to the Cornucopia, yes, but he couldn’t care less about his item.

No, he was going to the Cornucopia to end this.

He abandoned his travel strategy, walking in a straight line, knowing that the Capitol would find a way to lead him where he needed to go if he was heading in the opposite direction.

But there was no interference. No one stopped him, and nothing got in his way, until he reached the border of a lake. The lake was fairly large; about a hundred feet across and at least double that around, and all of it was covered with a thick layer of ice; thick enough to walk on, Mycroft easily deduced.

Mycroft would never know what inspired him to make such a poor decision; perhaps it was the desire to finish the Hunger Games that blinded him from common logic, or it was the idea that it was so close to being over that he couldn’t waste any time to simply walk around the lake, or his need to see his brother and the thought that this need was so close to being fulfilled, but he wasn’t completely sure. Perhaps, it was a combination of all three that inspired Mycroft to go ahead without thinking of the consequences of falling straight into the frozen lake, and step out onto the ice.

At the time it seemed like a good idea. He was skinnier than most of the other tributes (and most of his class back in District 12, honestly), and he was cautious enough to test the ice before each step and to listen for any sounds of a fracture; he wasn’t going to be the stupid tribute that ended up killing themselves during the final three. And since the Capitol wasn’t sending down mutants or ice monsters or polar bears (or whatever he had seen that night under the full moon) upon him to keep him from crossing over the lake, they were obviously content with his decision, too. Either way, Mycroft was headed in the right direction, and would give them the finale that they so craved, and then he would be able to go home…

He was about halfway across the frozen lake when he heard them, all the way across the ice, to his left. Two Career tributes, trying to sneak their way up to him on the slippery ice, trying to be subtle and quiet when it was already too late.

Mycroft had plenty of time to run; to scuttle across the ice as quickly as he dared before reaching the snowy banks of land, where he could actually run as fast as he could.

However, Mycroft did not run. Mycroft stood in the middle of the frozen lake and waited.

The female (a girl that seemed twice as large as Mycroft, despite only being two years older than him, by the name of Isadora Lent from District Two) got to Mycroft first, though Mycroft easily deduced the only reason the male (a boy of similar size and age named Jed Wakefield from District Four) hadn’t reached Mycroft simultaneously was due to a severely frostbitten leg. In fact, the young man seemed to purposely hang back, prepared to watch the fight between Mycroft and Isadora.

This was completely fine by Mycroft, honestly; it was easier to bring them down one at a time, anyway, instead of both of them ganging up on him.

Isadora Lent was ferociously powerful. Armed with a ball-and-chain flail, she practically survived on brute force alone, and made sure Mycroft knew that. Yes, he could think quickly, and he could dodge most of her moves, but they were also on ice, and when she managed to hit him, each blow forced his ears to ring, knocked the breath from his lungs, and nearly rendered him unconscious.

He continued to push on, getting back up each time she knocked him down, wiping the blood from his face and fighting back, for Sherlock.

Until he couldn’t. Until the citizens of Panem, watching from hundreds of miles away, were able to see her prove that brains didn’t always surpass brawn.

Almost.

Isadora Lent knocked Mycroft down, one last time, and Mycroft, shaking, battered, and bloody, swung his leg across her ankles, just in the right spot, just as she was about to deliver the final blow.

She was so big, so tall and strong that she fell with the same amount of power, crashing down with a force that caused the ice to begin to crack beneath her. That is where Mycroft delivered his final blow, being able to pinpoint the right angle and area to plunge his sword within her, deep enough to puncture a lung, and cut through an artery.

Isadora’s blood spread across the ice, blooming like a flower around her, seeping into the cracks of the ice underneath them, and it might’ve been beautiful if it wasn’t so horrifying.

However, Mycroft still watched, catching his breath, trying to regain any bit of stamina, preparing himself for his next opponent; for Jed Wakefield, who was making his way closer to the two bodies.

Mycroft could taste his own blood in his mouth and spit it out on the ice; he could feel the bruises on his skin starting to form; he could see his left eye beginning to swell shut. Did Isadora break one of his bones? Mycroft tried to roll his shoulder to find that yes, yes she did break his arm. Jed only had his leg going against him, but it seemed like every part of his body was out of Mycroft’s favor.

Jed was a Career. He wasn’t nearly as big as Isadora, but he was still bigger than Mycroft; more skilled than Mycroft in fighting, as well. Maybe they would’ve been more easily matched if he had fought him before Isadora, but now? He couldn’t make it.

He had to, though. For Sherlock; he had to get home, he had to get back to District 12, he _had_ to see his brother again…

He watched Jed make his way closer and closer, and dug through his memories, trying to think of any knowledge he had learned in the Training Center that could get him out of this; that could keep him alive, but all he could think of was Sherlock Holmes, Lindsay Cairns, and Dean Bainbridge:

_“D-Don’t die, okay?”_

_“You’re smarter than everyone, Mycroft. You could win –”_

_“You know how to survive, which, in my opinion, is what makes a winner.”_

He’d have to fight Jed, there was no other way for him to survive –

Wait.

Survive; that was it! Dean was right, Lindsay was right, even _Sherlock_ was right!

He could get out of this, Mycroft thought, his grip tightening on his sword. He didn’t have to _fight_ Jed; he just had to survive!

It would be dangerous, _extremely_ dangerous, considering that Mycroft’s broken arm, but Jed’s frostbitten leg would certainly lead to his demise, as long as Mycroft did everything right.

And of course, Mycroft would do everything right; he was Mycroft Holmes.

At that moment, Jed was close enough to Mycroft; close enough to Isadora’s body; close enough to the cracks in the ice. Before Jed could even figure out what was going on, before Jed could even beg for his life, Mycroft raised his sword, still bloody from Isadora’s death, above his head, and brought it down upon the ice.

He heard it before he saw it; the crack in the ice, combining with the crack that Isadora had created, spreading across the ice, under Isadora, under Jed, under Mycroft –

In an instant, he was under the water.

Mycroft thought he knew cold. He had lived in the Arena, in the snow-covered, freezing Hunger Games Arena, for days; he thought he knew exactly what cold was. He thought he had experienced the worst of what the cold would ever, _ever_ offer him.

He was wrong.

As soon as he broke the water’s surface, the shock of the cold that went through his body felt like someone had went and set fire to his bones. The cold was agonizing, and for a moment or two, Mycroft was so frozen he couldn’t move.

But he had to – he had to survive.

Keeping a strong grip on his sword, ready to fight if he needed to, Mycroft reached up over his head (despite the protests of his broken arm), and worked against the water, against gravity pulling him down into the depths of the lake, and found the edge of the hole he had made for himself.

He pulled himself up, gasping for air as his head broke the surface. Using all of his upper body strength, he pushed his torso up over the ice, leaning over and praying that the ice didn’t break under his weight, and dragging his lower half out of the water as he pulled himself farther away from the hole.

As soon as his entire body was out of the water, he crawled away from the hole, wanting to lay down, wanting to catch his breath and sleep for days, sleep forever if he could, but he couldn’t.

He instead turned around, keeping his eyes on the fairly large hole he had made in the ice, waiting for Jed to emerge; as time ticked on, however, he knew exactly what he was waiting for.

The cannon echoed through the Arena, and Mycroft had never been more relieved to hear it, despite how much he hated the sound.

And then the trumpets sounded, and Claudius Templesmith’s voice echoed all around him:

“Ladies and gentlemen! I am pleased to present to you, the victor of the Sixty-Six Annual Hunger Games, Mycroft Holmes from District Twelve!”

Mycroft’s fingers loosened themselves from the hilt of the sword in his hand, allowing for it to slip onto the ice, leaving his hand for the first time since he first obtained it during the bloodbath.

He was alive. Yes, he was frostbitten, beaten, and just hanging onto his own life with mere will alone, but he had survived.

As he listened to the cheering crowds of the Capitol, Mycroft looked up to the skies, and saw the Capitol’s hovercraft appear, ready to take him out of the hell he had called an Arena.

He was going to see Sherlock again. Mycroft Holmes was going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the muttation is inspired by the giant ice monster from Frozen! XD
> 
> Music for this chapter:  
> Ice by Gold Fields  
> Ice Monster by Minus the Bear (for Anthea's death)  
> Frozen Pines by Lord Huron (for the frozen pines Mycroft sleeps under and also for Mycroft getting the sponsor gift)


	6. Adjustments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft returns to the Capitol and then returns to District 12; Mycroft adjusts to life beyond the Hunger Games.

Mycroft couldn’t remember closing his eyes on the Capitol hovercraft, but by the time he woke up, he was in the hospital wing under the Training Center, covered in blankets and surrounded by beeping monitors and bright lights and…

Dean Bainbridge, apparently, as he had chosen now to enter the small white room. His face brightened as soon as his eyes landed on Mycroft’s.

“Hey! Look at you!” he exclaimed, waltzing up to Mycroft, unstrapping Mycroft’s hands from his bed. “Don’t worry about these, standard procedure. Congratulations, man!” he put his hand out to shake, pulling Mycroft into a hug when Mycroft’s hand met his. “How’re you feeling?” he asked, straightening up, and his eyes landed on something behind Mycroft as he replied.

“I’m alive,” he said quietly, his voice so hoarse even he couldn’t distinguish if it was a statement of wonder or an attempt at a joke.

“Indeed you are! Let’s see here…” Dean said, reaching out and removing a clipboard containing what Mycroft could only assume to be his medical records from its place on the wall, looking over the papers it held. “Not bad, not bad…Severe hypothermia, frostbite, trench foot, and an acute case of chilblains. It sounds more serious than it is; the stuff they put in your IV is curbing most of the effects. Even better, you get to keep all of your fingers and toes!” he looked up, smiling like he had just made a joke, but Mycroft couldn’t find it in himself to smile back. “I’m serious; I guess the doctors were fighting over whether or not they had to amputate – it looked bad for a second there, I guess. I’ll be honest, the other mentors were placing bets on how many digits you’d be left with…myself included, I’ll admit, but don’t worry; I was on team twenty from the beginning.”

“Team twenty,” Mycroft repeated, unsure if he should be outraged or flattered.

“Yeah, team twenty – ten fingers, ten toes. Twenty,” Dean clarified before glancing back through the papers. “What else…broken arm, but I’m sure that’s mended itself, by now…and I guess at one point in the Arena you were shivering so badly you chipped a tooth, do you remember that?”

Mycroft nodded slowly, vaguely remembering the suspicion he had at some point over his time in the Arena, but his mind was on other things.

Because suddenly, without even realizing it, Mycroft was taking inventory of anything within arm’s reach that could be used as a weapon, and mapping out all of the room’s exits. Panic was quickly setting in.

_He’s a Career he’s a Career you killed his tribute a Career is still a Career and you killed his tribute –_

“– so they went in and fixed that for you and – Mycroft?” Dean asked, cutting himself off, frowning, noticing the fact that Mycroft was starting to struggle with the restraints at his ankles and waist; the ones that the Capitol had put on him and definitely not Dean – “What’s going on, what’s wrong, man?”

Mycroft was strapped to the bed he laid in. If Dean had wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t have unstrapped his hands. If he wanted to kill him, he would have done so by now. However, he hadn’t killed him. In fact, he was treating him like he always had; like a friend. Which meant…

“You…you don’t hate me,” Mycroft stated quietly, in a voice that sounded so unsure of himself that it made him sick.

“Hate you?” Dean repeated. “Why would I hate you?”

He had to have known; he had to have known why Mycroft thought he was angry with him, but just by looking at Dean’s face he could tell that he, in fact, had no idea what Mycroft was talking about.

“Jed,” he reminded him, his name sounding foreign in his mouth. “He…he was yours. He was your tribute and I killed him.” He could hear his voice crack and he quickly cleared his throat.

Dean’s face fell in response to Mycroft’s words, settling into something sickeningly sympathetic.

“Why would I hate you for that?” he asked, putting the clipboard down on the bedside table. “Mycroft, you were in the Hunger Games Arena – it was either you or him. When I decided to mentor you and Anthea I knew that one of my tributes could try to kill you, and I knew that you might kill them. You did what anybody would. It’s okay.”

“But I wasn’t yours, not like he was –” Mycroft started, and Dean shook his head.

“Yes, you were, Mycroft. From the moment you decided to let me take you, you were mine. Maybe even more than Jed was, honestly, because we chose each other; Jed and I didn’t.”

“I – I still don’t understand –” he admitted, hating the words as they exited his mouth, part of him noting that this was the _second_ time he had uttered these words to Dean Bainbridge.

Dean pursed his lips into a tight smile and finally shrugged.

“You’re a victor now, Mycroft. You will.”

* * *

Even though Mycroft was itching to take the next available train to District 12, Mycroft still had obligations to meet, and Dean was there with him every step of the way, even if he couldn’t stand by his side like a legitimate mentor could. He was still there, though, meeting Mycroft on the roof of the Training Center after the recap ceremony to go over the details Mycroft couldn’t seem to remember no matter how hard he tried or wasn’t present for and his feelings about his nickname of “the Ice Man,” and he even made a point to see Mycroft off after his final interview with Caesar Flickerman.

At first, he didn’t think he was going to see him again, that he was going back to District 12 without a proper goodbye. He went to the train station with Mrs. Hudson and the necessary Peacekeepers to flank them, and Mycroft found himself searching among the faces of the surrounding paparazzi to find him.

He didn’t know why he wanted to see him, why Dean mattered so much to him; the Hunger Games were over, Mycroft could go home, he didn’t need Dean anymore. Honestly, he didn’t need Dean at all, even in the beginning. So why was he still looking back, even as Mrs. Hudson and the nearest Peacekeeper ushered him onto the train.

He put one foot onto the steps of the train and found himself looking back, one last time, and that was when he finally saw him, racing across the busy street to meet them. Mycroft stepped off the train, turning to face him, surprised by the smile on his face.

At first, the Peacekeepers stood in front of Mycroft, blocking his way, but before Mycroft could open his mouth (to say what, he had no idea), Mrs. Hudson stepped in, assuring them it was okay.

Finally, Dean was allowed past, and he stepped before Mycroft.

“Well, this is it,” Dean said, putting his hand out for Mycroft to shake, and when Mycroft took it, Dean brought him in for a hug. “It was an absolute pleasure working with you, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Likewise,” Mycroft agreed, patting Dean’s back in return, for the first time ever. Once they parted, Dean passed a small black notebook to him.

“Parting gift; you look like a man who writes,” Dean explained quickly, sheepishly, before moving on. “Now, remember, you’ll be back for the Victory Tour in February, and then we’ll all be back next year for mentoring.”

“Right,” Mycroft nodded, and Dean could obviously tell that the thought of mentoring made him uneasy, reading Mycroft’s face in a way Mycroft had never been read, before.

“Don’t worry, you’ll fit in with the other mentors fine,” he assured him, and then began searching his pockets. “I know all that’s pretty far away, so if you ever need me –” Finally, he found what he was looking for and presented a small slip of paper to Mycroft. Mycroft took it from him and read it to himself, only finding a random string of numbers that, even though he didn’t know what they meant, he memorized instantly.

“This is…?” he asked, and Dean chuckled.

“Sorry, I forget this is all new for you. When you move to the Victor’s Village, which will happen immediately, you’ll get your own phone. That –” He pointed at the slip of paper as Mycroft placed it in his pocket. “– is my phone number. You can call me anytime, day or night. About anything. I just wouldn’t say anything over the phone that you wouldn’t want repeated.”

“Thank you, Dean. For everything,” Mycroft said, quietly, hoping that conveyed the amount of gratitude he felt. “I mean it.”

“Anytime. And hey, if you ever need a break from your brother, give me a ring – I’d love to meet him, even if it’s over the phone. I’ve got a cousin around his age, he adores me –” Dean offered, but Mycroft was already shaking his head.

“No, that’s alright. I appreciate the offer, but…” he lowered his voice a pinch, just so none of the surrounding people could hear him. “Sherlock’s already too close to the Hunger Games for my liking, honestly. I want to keep him as far away as possible from all this,” he explained, neglecting to mention that it was already bad enough that Mycroft was going to expose Sherlock to a lot of it just by coming home, but Dean nodded.

“Completely understandable, but if you change your mind –” he started, and then gestured to Mycroft’s pocket. “– you know my number.”

“Of course.”

“Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson started, reminding him that the woman existed. “I’m sorry to break this up, but it’s time to go.”

“Right,” he agreed, then looked back at Dean, straightening up and adjusting his suit. “So, I’ll see you in July?”

“If not earlier,” Dean confirmed with a nod. “And, if I can give you some advice –”

“Always,” Mycroft said, surprising himself, considering how the first time Dean had offered to give advice Mycroft didn’t want to hear a word of it, and Dean smiled sadly in reply.

“If you can, don’t think. Don’t think about the Capitol, don’t think about the Arena, don’t think about the people you left there – and if you start to, think of home. Think of the people you’ve fought so hard to come home to. It helps. Helped me.”

And Mycroft kept his words in mind all the way home, not speaking much to anyone, trying to put himself into the mindset of returning. He thought it would be easy, like he could just pick up where he left off, but the moment he had to remind himself that he would not be coming home to his mother he knew it would not be that simple.

In fact, the easiest part of returning home was the moment Sherlock Holmes threw himself into his arms, and Mycroft hugged him in return, whispering how much he missed him in his ear.

As they walked through District Twelve, Peacekeepers leading them the Victor’s Village, to what would now be their new home, it seemed like everyone, people Mycroft had known since he was born, was looking at him differently. They all wanted to speak with him, they all wanted to touch him, they all wanted to be near him, and Mycroft already hated it, and he could instantly tell Sherlock was irked by it, as well. However, that didn’t stop the boy from talking, from rattling on and on, asking questions about the Capitol and about the Hunger Games and the Arena, and it took everything in Mycroft not to shut the boy down completely.

He didn’t want to answer any questions. He didn’t want to describe how big the Capitol was or how many people there were or how cold the Arena was or how blue his skin turned from the exposure.

The longer he was there, walking through District 12, seeing people and listening to Sherlock speak, the more he just wanted the entire world to stop and give himself a minute to breathe.

Since when was merely existing _this_ exhausting?

It took half an hour and a single trip for the Peacekeepers to move their belongings from their shack in the Seam to what seemed like a mansion in the Victor’s Village. As soon as they entered the place, Sherlock was racing around the place, exclaiming about all the rooms and the staircase and the fact that their bathroom was _inside_ the house as opposed to outside, and Mycroft found the slightest smile on his face as Sherlock ran upstairs to pick out his room from the three available bedrooms, leaving Mycroft alone in silence, if only for a minute.

 _This_ is what Sherlock deserved. A house, a real house, with separate rooms and an indoor bathroom with running water. They were going to get food, and riches beyond their belief. Yes, Mycroft had gone through hell to get here, but they would be alright. Mycroft just had to learn how to exist like an actual, fully functional person after going through the Hunger Games, and, maybe even bigger than that, he had to learn to be a guardian for –

“Mycroft!” Sherlock called, racing down the stairs. “I found my room, I found my room! It’s so _big_ , I think it’s the biggest one! And there’s already a bed in it! You should go upstairs, you should pick out your room! What are we going to do with the other one? I think –”

The world had changed all around Mycroft, but here Sherlock was, acting like everything was fine, like Mycroft had never left. Mycroft was happy for that; the tragedy that had struck the family didn’t hit him so hard it left him too scared to continue. He was alright. Yes, he was tiring and annoying and loud and wildly offensive without ever truly meaning to be, but he was Sherlock.

Mycroft had to be a guardian for Sherlock, and he had to leave for the Victory Tour in February, just after Sherlock’s tenth birthday, and then he’d have to leave for mentoring every summer until he died.

How hard could it be?

But, right now, Sherlock was talking.

Sherlock was telling him all about a boy he had met while Mycroft was away; a boy who had kept Sherlock safe while their mother didn’t and Mycroft couldn’t. His name was John Watson, and he had a little sister named Harriet (though the girl preferred to use Harry as a nickname), and the two children had a mother and father who were alive, and they let Sherlock live with them for the past few weeks.

They had planned on adopting Sherlock if Mycroft had been killed in the Arena.

And, for a moment, Mycroft saw the life that Sherlock should have had, and very well could have had, if tragedy hadn’t struck the family so many times; a life where Sherlock had an older brother like Mycroft, a younger sister like Eurus, a mother and a father like their own, and a house with indoor plumbing and more than just four walls, smaller than their new home but still a better home than the one that they had.

Now, Sherlock only had an older brother who was more or less the Capitol’s property, and a larger house in the Victor’s Village to prove it.

That hardly seemed fair.

Then Mycroft looked into his little brother’s eyes, and suddenly he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It was evident that Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love with this boy; the boy who saved him.

Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson.

* * *

Mycroft was in the Arena for all of a week, according to the recap and Dean and any other record he could find on the subject. Mycroft himself, however, could not remember how long exactly he was there, for it seemed like time worked differently in the Arena, the hours and days and nights all blurring into one, leaving Mycroft with events. The bloodbath was before Anthea’s death, and Anthea died before getting his sponsor gift, and so on and so forth.

Seven days. Mycroft couldn’t help but think of the stupid, impossible story his father told him when he was young, how the universe and the earth were created in nothing more than seven days, six if you didn’t count the day of rest. It was impossible, Mycroft always thought. The universe was intricate, difficult to nail down. Each person and animal in existence had its own life, all so alike and different at the same time. There was so much in the world; its creation couldn’t possibly have taken only a week.

However, as Mycroft lived his life, existing outside of the Arena, he came to a realization: it only took a day, only an instant, to completely change Mycroft’s entire life, to take his future and upend it entirely, and it took exactly a week in the Arena to completely change Mycroft himself. It seemed like everything about him was different, from the way he thought to the way he walked and spoke to others. The world had changed around Mycroft, and Mycroft had changed in a completely different way, rendering his entire existence different.

At first, he thought he would be alright; that the world would settle back to where it was and that he would find his place in it, but too much had changed.

* * *

First and foremost, and probably most noticeable, Mycroft realized that he had gotten used to carrying his sword in the Arena. He had gotten so used to it, in fact, that his hand felt too empty without it. He had tried nullifying the situation by keeping his father’s pocket watch on his person and holding it whenever he needed to, but he quickly came to the realization that the pocket watch wouldn’t be enough. He felt exposed without his sword; unprotected, even though there wasn’t really anything he needed to protect himself from, and he was more than aware of that. He needed something like a sword – the same length, the same general style, the same feeling of protection that came with it. His first thought was to buy a cane, but that seemed too noticeable and too unnecessary, considering that, despite the frostbite that almost took half of his toes, his legs suffered no injuries, and everyone in Panem knew that. One day, though, while Mycroft and Sherlock were walking back home from running errands, the clouds opened up and released a downpour upon District 12, and as Sherlock jumped in puddles and let himself get drenched, a thought occurred to Mycroft. As soon as they returned home, Mycroft sent for the order, and two days later a black umbrella was delivered to Mycroft.

It was perfect, and therefore, like the sword in the Arena, it never left his hand.

Sherlock, afraid of Mycroft somehow being taken away by the Hunger Games, slept in his bed with him every night, and Mycroft tried to stay quiet when he woke up nearly every night from flashbacks and nightmares. There were some nights, though, where he could not control himself, where he screamed into the night as he woke up, clapping his hands over his mouth, but sometimes it would be too late, and Sherlock would wake up next to him.

“What?” Sherlock asked one night, about a month after Mycroft returned home from the Arena, after a particularly rough nightmare. The boy rubbed his eyes, still half asleep as he sat up next to him. “What is it?”

“Nothing, Sherlock, go back to sleep,” Mycroft ordered, pressing his hands to his eyes, trying to keep the tears that had suddenly appeared there to stop.

“You called me,” Sherlock informed him, and Mycroft took his hands away to turn and look at his brother.

“No, I didn’t,” Mycroft said. Yes, the nightmare had been about Sherlock; the last thing he remembered before waking up was seeing the boy fall through the ice of the lake, but he never tried to wake him up after these nightmares. If Mycroft did have a dream about Sherlock, all he needed to see was the gentle rise and fall of his brother’s chest as he slept beside him, and he’d know that he was alright and Mycroft would roll over and fall back asleep, but Mycroft would never call Sherlock out of sleep after a nightmare.

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock insisted, and Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn’t lie. He knew Sherlock; he was a terrible liar.

“…Did I?” Mycroft asked, quietly.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “You were really loud about it.”

It was at that moment that Mycroft knew what Sherlock meant: Mycroft had screamed Sherlock’s name in his dream, so loud and with such force that the act in his dream translated to a physical act outside of his sleep. It wasn’t the fact that Sherlock fell through the ice that woke him up, it was the volume in which he had screamed for Sherlock.

“Great,” Mycroft muttered, putting is head in his hands. Something else for him to worry about. He was deep in thought, considering ways to keep himself quiet at night, when he realized that Sherlock was still there, watching him, waiting for him to say something. “I’m alright, Sherlock; go back to sleep.”

Sherlock watched his brother, just for a second more, and then Mycroft felt Sherlock lay back down, nestle himself up against his brother’s thigh, and doze off.

Once Sherlock had fallen back asleep, Mycroft got up, out of bed, and went downstairs, picking up the phone for the first time, and dialing the number he had memorized over a month ago.

The phone rang three times before he picked up.

“’lo?” Dean mumbled into the phone, very obviously just woken up.

“Dean? It’s Mycroft Holmes,” he said, quietly, wishing he had just waited until morning.

“Mycroft? Hey, how’ve you been?” Dean said, still half asleep.

“I’m sorry to wake you up –”

“No, it’s okay. Day or night, remember? What’s up?” he asked.

Mycroft pursed his lips. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he called. He hadn’t needed to call Dean since returning home; he had thought of it plenty of times, but always found other things to do instead of sitting down and calling him, especially recently, as the beginning of the school year was right around the corner, for Sherlock. Now that he was here, he tried to put his feelings into words, sorting through the statements he could possibly say to explain why he was phoning Dean at three in the morning on a Tuesday after not speaking to him for over a month.

But Dean had given Mycroft his number, and even more than that, he didn’t hang up the phone immediately upon hearing Mycroft’s name. Even more than that, still, was the fact that Dean was still on the line; he could hear Dean breathing, waiting patiently as Mycroft tried to figure out what to say.

Finally, Mycroft decided on the most pressing issue.

“I need the nightmares to stop,” he muttered into the phone, and Dean sighed. “I keep…I started waking Sherlock up.”

“They never really stop, Mycroft. Even the oldest victors in my District still have them – there’s no cure-all for that. I’m so sorry.”

Mycroft could feel a lump growing in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut, the phone shaking in his hand as he gripped it. He had so many things he wanted to say, to explain that he was waking his brother up, that the nightmares were about him, that he was reliving too much, but he stayed quiet, until he couldn’t.

A single sob escaped him, and he quickly covered his mouth, trying to swallow it down, feeling ashamed that Dean had to hear him like this; that Dean always seemed to be there when Mycroft was at his most vulnerable.

He was about to hang up the phone and figure something else out, until Dean spoke again:

“When I first got home from the Arena, I used to have these nightmares, nightmares so bad I would wake myself up and I didn’t want to go back to sleep, so my mentor suggested I take sleeping pills. The Capitol makes some, they’re called Upital. They help, but I became reliant upon them for a while there, turned me into a complete zombie. If I help you order them from the Capitol, you’ve got to promise you won’t take them too many nights in a row, alright? Can you do that?”

If it would help Mycroft sleep through the night without shouting his brother awake, he was willing to do anything. He wanted to keep Sherlock as far away from Mycroft’s trauma as possible, and calling for him in the night wasn’t helping matters, at all.

So Dean helped him order the Upital, and every time he took a pill, Mycroft made a note of it in the notebook Dean had given him. Once Mycroft realized that he had lost chunks of time due to his hypothermia, the notebook Dean had provided came especially in handy, using it to write down anything from big events or revelations to feelings that Mycroft would normally keep bottled inside to small events that Mycroft wanted to monitor (Sherlock’s detentions, shopping days, whenever Mycroft had a nightmare or a flashback, and now the days he took the Upital), just so he had the physical reminder that it happened.

* * *

Sometimes, Sherlock would talk about their parents. He would try to recount a memory they had shared with them, would try to ask Mycroft why he thought their mother did what she did or about a detail he had forgotten about their father, would try to tell him that he missed them. He used to do this before the Hunger Games, too, and Mycroft didn’t blame him. Sherlock was young, and he was even younger when their father died. Now that both of their parents had passed, Sherlock’s memories of them were all that he had. Before the Hunger Games, their mother was there to recount the memories with Sherlock, and Mycroft had no problem doing the same.

Now, however, Mycroft couldn’t speak of it. Of them. Of why their mother would do this to them, or the way their father smiled, or the times when they were all relatively happy together. So he stayed silent, or reminded Sherlock that he had other things to do, like going to see John Watson, or completing his homework. Anything to keep him from talking about their parents.

By the beginning of December, Sherlock stopped mentioning them.

* * *

One of the biggest differences, however, had nothing to do with Mycroft, not really, and that was the mere existence of John Watson in Sherlock’s life.

The day after Mycroft’s return from the Hunger Games, Mycroft made a point to take a trip to the Watson’s household to introduce himself to the Watson family, and to thank them in person for watching over Sherlock while he was gone, even hugging John in a moment of pure gratitude, which was something he almost never did. Mrs. Watson had told Mycroft during their meeting that if he needed anything to just reach out, but Mycroft’s pride refused to let him ask for help; it was bad enough that he asked Dean for it, on occasion (and once Dean had Mycroft’s number, he was calling him at least once a week to make sure he was alright). The act of kindness John Watson and his family showed to Sherlock by reaching out and taking him in, was an act that followed Mycroft around like a shadow, a favor he had to repay.

Mycroft gave the Watson family half of the food rations the Capitol delivered to the Holmes residence. He bought them new clothes, so they could get rid of any that were tattered or were too small to wear. He even went as far as buying them a larger house, one with three bedrooms as opposed to only two. They were all extremely grateful for all of it, but it never felt like enough to Mycroft. There had to be something he could do; something _more,_ but there wasn’t, not really.

He liked the boy, though; this John Watson character that seemed to force his way into the forefront of Sherlock’s life without realizing it or meaning to. At first, Mycroft had kept a close monitor on the two boys, whenever they decided to use the Holmes residence as their meeting place, waiting for Sherlock’s feelings to get hurt, or for Sherlock to hurt John’s. He knew how boys could be at this age; short-sighted, unaware or uncaring of feelings, physically cruel. Sherlock was an expert at deducing facts, but emotions? Sherlock had no idea how to read another person’s face, apart from perhaps Mycroft’s. Sherlock loved the boy, though; anything Mycroft could say to warn Sherlock to keep himself guarded would immediately get deleted in his head. Unfortunately, Sherlock would have to learn for himself, this time, around.

So, Mycroft waited for John to get bored or sick of Sherlock, to decide he had other, nicer friends to see and better ways to spend his time (and Mycroft _knew_ he did, he just knew it). However, the further time went on, the more he started to see that John Watson was not like any ten-year-old boys that he knew. Yes, he was young and naïve and annoying, just like Sherlock was (which made the two of them together even worse), but John was also caring, empathetic, understanding of Sherlock’s weirdness, unabashedly loyal to him, and seemed to genuinely enjoy trying to keep up with Sherlock’s mind.

There was one day, during the first week of school, as Mycroft stood outside the building (umbrella in hand despite the sunny day) waiting for Sherlock to emerge (on one of the rare days he _didn’t_ have detention). It was there that he noticed John talking with the friends from his class that Mycroft already knew he had. John hadn’t noticed Mycroft, but did notice the exact moment that Sherlock exited the school, a detention slip pinned to his shirt, and Mycroft expected him to stay with his group of friends, all still actively involving John in the conversation. The moment John broke off from his friends, calling that he’d see them tomorrow, leaving them rolling their eyes and grumbling as he ran to catch up with Sherlock, solidified Mycroft’s opinion of him.

John Watson was a golden boy, in Mycroft’s eyes.

* * *

Sometimes, Mycroft would lie awake at night, waiting for the Upital he had taken to lull him to sleep, and consider all of these changes; how Mycroft had changed, how the world around him changed, and how, perhaps, his father’s story wasn’t so farfetched, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> Lost Powers by Everything Everything


	7. Birthday.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter descends upon District 12, triggering Mycroft's post-traumatic stress in a way he cannot escape from; Mycroft's first birthday after the Hunger Games approaches, and Mycroft tries to avoid it; Mycroft and Sherlock make a deal.

Winter descended upon District 12 like a plague, the cold weather settling upon Mycroft’s bones, sending a degree of dread throughout his mind.

He had been doing alright, he believed. He was doing an adequate job taking care of Sherlock; he made sure he ate every day and slept every night, at the very least. He spoke to his brother’s bullies as he learned of them in the effort to make them leave him alone, now that his bullies knew that Mycroft had the ability to kill. He even took it upon himself to try to teach Sherlock that it was best to keep his more damaging deductions to himself, trying to curb his habit before it really got him into trouble.

He continued his friendship with Lindsay Cairns, checking in on her often and conversing with her while he waited for Sherlock to get out of school each day. There was one day while they were talking where, with a new-found confidence he did not possess before going into the Hunger Games Arena, Mycroft decided to approach a boy that Lindsay liked and order him to talk to her, for he knew that the feeling was mutual (he wouldn’t have breathed a word to him about Lindsay, otherwise). They started dating shortly after, much to Mycroft’s satisfaction.

Mycroft even spoke regularly to Dean, picking up each time he called and making the effort to lower his guard just enough to speak to him of the things he would never admit to anyone else even a little bit. He spoke mostly about his flashbacks and nightmares, keeping Dean’s warning about what he said over the phone in mind. He was sure to keep tabs on his usage of the Upital Dean had helped Mycroft procure, and he made a point to assure Dean that he was not abusing the pills, as well as inform him that the pills were, indeed, working.

The umbrella Mycroft had bought back in August never left his side, carrying it around District 12 despite the weather outside, and even carrying it throughout the house on his worst days. In the summertime, when Mycroft first began keeping it with him, a few people asked him why he had it. Sherlock used those words almost exactly, and Mycroft had simply shrugged and asked him “why not?” in return. The few Peacekeepers and store owners that decided to ask, however, did not use so many words, mostly just asking if it was supposed to rain that day, and Mycroft would reply that it was best to be prepared. Some of those few turned it into an inside joke between them, choosing to ask every time they crossed Mycroft’s path for years to come, and Mycroft would always reply the same way.

He was doing alright, truly, until winter arrived, just as Mycroft had been getting used to temperatures above freezing.

He tried to convince himself that it was just like any other winter in District 12; the trees shivering from lack of leaves to warm them, each morning bringing a layer of frost upon every surface, each snowfall blanketing the District in a quiet, cold, white sheet that Mycroft, at one point in his life, had thought was beautiful.

There was nothing beautiful about it, now. It was as if his Arena had been brought back to him without his consent; he literally could not avoid it. Whenever he went out (which was at least twice a day to walk Sherlock to and from school), armed with his umbrella that felt even more like the sword than he had bought it to be, these days, he found himself checking his fingers religiously to make sure they weren’t turning the deep shade of blue they had been by the time he had left the Arena. The way the snow laid on the trees, weighing down their branches, made Mycroft think of the trees in the Arena. The way the sun hit the surface of the snow, plunging the world into a bright white light, put Mycroft back in his first moments in the Arena, standing on the platform and waiting for his eyes to adjust. Even the quiet stillness that he once enjoyed was too much. It was too quiet for him, now; he was almost happy when he had Sherlock babbling next to him, so he wouldn’t have to focus on the sound of his feet stepping through the snow. Everything about the wintertime brought it all back to him, reminding him of the reasons why he was there, and each and every person who had not survived to see this year’s snow.

The worst part about it, though, the most embarrassing part of it all, was the fact that, even when the temperatures dropped to below ten, Mycroft could not bring himself to wear any sort of winter attire, apart from sweaters.

It wasn’t that Mycroft wasn’t prepared for the winter; back in November, weeks before the first day of winter, Mycroft had been sure to order winter coats, boots, gloves, scarves, and hats for not only himself and Sherlock but also the entire Watson family, but when the time came to take his set out of the box they arrived in and use them…he simply couldn’t. He could only wear a sweater or two over his long-sleeved button-up and t-shirt and put on multiple pairs of socks to keep himself warm whenever he went out. There were so many mornings he stood before the box of winter attire, trying to will his hands to move and touch the coat _at least,_ but he never could. And, every one of those mornings, after he finally gave up, he would then immediately turn around and hound Sherlock to make sure he put on everything he had gotten for him before they started their walk to school, immediately making Mycroft one of the biggest hypocrites alive, and Mycroft knew it.

He noticed those things about himself a lot more, lately. His hypocrisy, his temper, his inability to cope the way he thought he could, all more prominent in his mind, shadowed by a sense of guilt he couldn’t shake. Every time he snapped at Sherlock it stuck out in his mind, a reminder of everything he couldn’t be for him, of everything he had promised himself he would be in the Arena, if only he made it out alive. Now that he was out, though? Now that he survived, now that he _killed?_ He made himself sick with disappointment.

It all came to a head on December seventeenth: Mycroft’s seventeenth birthday.

He had never been one for his birthday; maybe when he was younger, before his father’s death, but as he grew older, it stopped being fun for him. His mother always got him a cake and a present from her and from Sherlock (Sherlock always being too young to get Mycroft a gift for himself), even after the mine explosion, and he was always thankful for it. But now…

He almost completely forgot about the day in general, until the Monday before his birthday, where Sherlock was let out of school at the end of the day with a note (not a detention, but a _note)_ pinned to his shirt:

_Dear Mycroft,_

_Firstly, in response to your letter, Sherlock’s been doing exceptionally well in my class on an academic level, but if you’d sincerely like a parent-teacher conference, I would be more than happy to meet with you. I am available after school either Thursday of this week or Wednesday of next week; please let me know which day works best for you._

_While Sherlock’s been doing well in my class academically, his behavior has been slightly troubling. Today, for instance, Sherlock has expressed his decision that he will not be attending school on Friday, December 17 th, even though he has a test in my class that day. Sherlock has been adamant that, since you have won the Hunger Games this year, your birthday has been made into a national holiday, and therefore school must be closed for that day. Principal Lindon and I have tried to explain to him that this is not one of our scheduled days off this school year, but he insisted the school calendar was wrong._

_We did not seek disciplinary actions for Sherlock’s behavior (speaking out of turn, talking back to his teacher and his principal, and planning to skip school), but we hope that you are able to convince your brother that he does, in fact, have school (and a test in my class) on Friday, December 17 th._

_Please keep in touch, and reach out if you have any concerns._

_Thank you,_

_Ms. Raynor_

As soon as Mycroft closed the door to their home in the Victor’s Village, Mycroft leaned his head on the doorframe, letting out a long sigh before turning around to face Sherlock, who was stood quietly in the hall, waiting for Mycroft to either reprimand him, or confirm his beliefs.

“A national holiday? Really, Sherlock?” he asked, finally. “My birthday did _not_ become a holiday.”

“Yes, it did!” Sherlock nearly exploded, as if he had been waiting for this moment all day.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get another detention –” Mycroft started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“For what?!”

“For trying to tell your teacher and your principal how to run their school, for one –” Mycroft began to offer before Sherlock cut him off.

“Well, they could use the help!” Sherlock exclaimed, crossing his arms, glaring up at his brother. This was a constant argument between the two brothers whenever it came to schoolwork; the teachers always wanted something different than whatever Sherlock believed to be right. Mycroft had been trying to convince Sherlock that sometimes, especially in school, it was better to just be complacent; given that Sherlock had been doing well academically showed that maybe a fraction of his brother was beginning to listen to him. However, Sherlock still, very obviously, had a lot more to learn.

“Well, not about this. Their calendars are right; you have school on Friday.”

“But it’s –” Sherlock started, but Mycroft spoke over him, this time.

“That’s not how that works, Sherlock,” Mycroft tried to explain, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand as he gripped onto his umbrella with the other.

“What do you mean that’s not how it works?! You won the Hunger Games that means your birthday becomes a national holiday –”

“That’s not what it means, Sherlock. That’s never what it meant. Who in Panem even put that idea in your head, anyway?”

“Harry did,” Sherlock admitted, and Mycroft sighed again.

“You’re _smarter_ than Harriet,” he reminded his brother, still exasperated.

“John agreed!” Sherlock argued.

“You’re smarter than _John!_ You’re smarter than everyone you just have to _think!”_ Mycroft snapped. “Don’t you think someone would have told _me_ that if it were true? Perhaps when they were going over all of the other things that would be different because I won the Hunger Games?”

At this, at either Mycroft’s sharp tone or his increase in volume, or maybe just at the logic that was now being presented to Sherlock, the boy seemed to deflate as he considered it.

Sherlock stayed silent, knowing better than to argue, but still too stubborn to apologize or admit that he had been wrong.

In fact, they both stayed silent, watching the other brother, until Mycroft finally sighed again, running his hand through his hair as he thought of a way to get this whole birthday business out of Sherlock’s head.

“Look, about Friday…” he started, leaning his umbrella up against the corner in the hall (its usual place of residence, unless Mycroft had it in hand) and kneeling down before Sherlock, making sure he was at his brother’s level. “…Let’s play a game of pretend, shall we? It’s going to be a long game of pretend, but I know you can handle it.”

“Okay…” Sherlock said quietly, unsure of where this was going.

“We’re going to pretend that Friday is just that. A regular old Friday. We’re going to pretend that my birthday doesn’t even exist,” Mycroft said gently, unable to fight the grin that was spreading across his face, elated by his own idea.

“So you’re gonna be sixteen forever? Even when you’re a hundred?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft tried his hardest to not roll his eyes. Why was he being so civilian about this? He was amazed that there were times Sherlock seemed to be right where Mycroft wanted him to be, emotionally reserved and logically years beyond his age (his idea of trying to get the market owners to pity him for food while Mycroft was away impressed him to his core), but then there were times like this, where Sherlock just… _wasn’t._

“No, I’m going to be seventeen,” Mycroft replied, trying to keep his voice level as he explained.

“Does that mean I won’t be ten next month?” Sherlock asked, eyes growing wide with panic.

“No, you’ll be ten next month,” Mycroft assured him “Everything will be the same, we’re just going to pretend that _my_ birthday isn’t going to happen.”

Sherlock squinted at Mycroft, still not completely understanding.

“W-Why wouldn’t you –?” Sherlock began to ask, and Mycroft understood:

Sherlock was just a child. Birthdays were still the best days in the world to him. That was why he could be so civilian. That was why he could seem so much unlike a true Holmes that Mycroft sometimes wondered if Sherlock was actually adopted, even though he knew for a fact that wasn’t the case. That was why he could be so impulsive, so mouthy, so rude.

He was just a child.

“Because I just don’t, Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. He wanted to add that he knew Sherlock wouldn’t understand, and that he hoped to God that he would never have to understand, but he didn’t. “I just don’t.”

“…Okay,” Sherlock said quietly, after a long moment. He didn’t understand, but that was alright; Mycroft wasn’t asking him to understand. He only had to do what he was told.

“So what’s Friday?” Mycroft asked, just to ensure that Sherlock knew what the game was.

“Just Friday,” Sherlock replied, and Mycroft grinned.

“That’s right. And how old will I be?”

Sherlock took a second to think about it.

“Sixteen?” he tried.

“Seventeen, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him, finding the patience within to hide his exasperation.

“But we’re…pretending…” Sherlock said slowly.

“Yes, that’s correct. You’ll _know_ my birthday’s on Friday and that I’m seventeen, but you won’t _show_ it. And what do I always tell you about knowing and showing?”

“‘Knowing is better than showing,’” Sherlock recited, rolling his eyes. The phrase had been one that Mycroft had been drilling into his brother’s head ever since he returned from the Hunger Games, hoping that maybe it’ll save Sherlock some trouble, one day.

Mycroft smiled.

“Good boy,” he said, placing his hand on his brother’s cheek. In response, Sherlock set his jaw, as if he was physically biting his tongue to keep from speaking. He knew this look well, and mentally kicked himself for making Sherlock think he wasn’t allowed to speak his mind to him. “What? What is it?” Mycroft asked.

“But – but what about your present?” Sherlock asked. “I haven’t gotten you one yet – but I was going to! I was really going to –”

Mycroft sighed one last time.

“I understand where you’re coming from, I really do, Sherlock. I don’t need a present, though. I’d rather not get one, actually.”

“But it’s your – I mean, I know, we’re pretending, but –” Sherlock started to protest, and Mycroft thought fast of a compromise; something that would appease both of them.

“Alright, Sherlock, do you really want to give me a present? Something that I would really, _really_ like?” he asked, trying to make it sound like something amazing; something that Sherlock couldn’t resist. Perhaps then, he would actually try to do it.

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed, bouncing a little bit as he spoke, falling right into Mycroft’s well-intended trap.

“If you really want to get me something for my birthday, something that would make me _so_ happy, all you need to do is…,” he paused for dramatic effect, pulling Sherlock even farther in with his words. “…have a good day.”

Instantly, Sherlock was back to squinting at his brother, back to being confused. So, Mycroft explained:

“I want you to have a good day at school. I want you to behave. For one day.” He kept his tone even and kind, not accusing Sherlock or blaming him for what he seemed to have such a hard time controlling.

But still, he could see the anxiousness and uncertainty rise into Sherlock’s expression, the question only asked through Sherlock’s eyes: did Mycroft truly believe that Sherlock could do that? After a long moment of watching his brother consider his words, Sherlock finally nodded, accepting the challenge to please his brother.

Within half an hour, the rules and stipulations were laid out and accepted: the good day would start the moment Mycroft dropped Sherlock off at school, and would end the second he picked him up. He would not talk back to or play deductions with his teachers or his classmates. He would do his schoolwork the way that they had talked about, giving the teachers the answers they wanted without complaint. He would not get into trouble or get a detention, but if Sherlock ended up getting a detention over the week that needed to be served on Friday, it wouldn’t count toward Sherlock’s good day. By the end of it, Sherlock seemed more excited than anxious, and Mycroft couldn’t help but be excited, as well. It would be a feat for Sherlock, but he could do it. Mycroft was sure of it; he believed in his brother.

That was, until, the end of the school day on Friday.

Of course, Sherlock had gotten himself a detention over the week, which meant he had to serve it on Friday, which was more than alright. They had already discussed it; it didn’t count.

So, on Friday, Mycroft showed up to the one and only school in District 12 an hour after the school’s dismissal time, and waited for Sherlock to emerge.

Sherlock had done really well that morning; he didn’t mention the date, he didn’t talk back or complain, and he didn’t even _breathe_ the words “happy” or “birthday.” He really took what Mycroft had told him to heart. Therefore, Mycroft was kind of eager to see Sherlock that afternoon. Perhaps they would go pick up a small cake from the bakery, to celebrate. Something small, something that wasn’t as special as ordering a cake from the Capitol. Perhaps Mycroft would even suspend the game of pretend, allowing for Sherlock to say the words Mycroft knew he desperately wanted to say.

As the minutes stretched on, however, Mycroft’s plan began to disappear, and a vague sense of worry began to set in. Of course, he worried and fretted over Sherlock constantly, especially since becoming his primary guardian, but there were some things he knew he didn’t need to worry so much about. For instance, the boy could clean his room, get dressed and tie his shoes without assistance, and he knew not to play with fire without a bucket of water on hand. This was one of those things that he could rely upon: Sherlock went to school, and Sherlock was never tardy about leaving school, unless there was a detention he had to serve.

His detention was over, though; it had been over for ten minutes, according to their father’s pocket watch (that Mycroft still carried around).

He tried to soothe himself, running his thumb over the handle of his umbrella as he considered the reason.

Mr. Lobber probably had to speak with him about his behavior; perhaps Sherlock didn’t understand what he had done wrong? He was like that sometimes; he knew that his behavior was wrong but he couldn’t seem to pin down the reason why he upset someone or got himself into trouble. Mycroft tried to help him, but this could be one of the times where, no matter how it was phrased, he didn’t understand. If that was the case, though, they had been trying to have this conversation for over an hour. How could he not understand that it was wrong to tell another student of their parents’ secret impending divorce _that much?_

It was then that, as if to answer Mycroft’s question, the door to the school opened, and Mr. Lobber himself walked out.

“Mr. Lobber!” Mycroft called out, stepping forward to meet the man at the bottom of the steps.

“Mycroft! How have you been?” he asked. Mycroft had quite liked Mr. Lobber, when he was his student. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not a fan of him.

“I’m doing alright, thank you. I take it Sherlock’s not with you?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. As soon as his brother’s name passed his lips, the man seemed to deflate as he tried not to roll his eyes, sighing instead.

Obviously, Mr. Lobber was not a fan of Sherlock, either.

“No, I let him out early; I had him write lines and let him leave when he was done. I figured that would be better than keeping him for the whole hour.”

Mycroft quickly deduced that when he said, “better” he actually meant “easier,” and he could feel the rage rising up within him as Mr. Lobber quickly demoted himself to one of Mycroft’s least favorite teachers. He knew his brother could be difficult to handle, but if he didn’t want to deal with him, why keep him for the extra hour? Why choose to be a teacher at all? It wasn’t as if Mycroft had gotten a choice, Mycroft thought without actually thinking it.

The idea of the thought brought itself up in Mycroft’s mind at least once a week, nowadays, never fully formulated but thought nonetheless, which hurt him more than the thoughts of the Hunger Games that constantly flooded his mind did. He didn’t have a choice in any of this; in his role in the Hunger Games, in needing to survive for Sherlock, in coming home and taking care of Sherlock, in trying to survive his life outside the Hunger Games…none of it was his choice.

He just had to live with it.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied easily, flashing the teacher he now hated a polite smile. “And how long ago would you have cut my brother loose, exactly?” he asked, and reveled in the way the phrase made Mr. Lobber uneasy.

“Um,” he looked down at his watch. “About thirty minutes ago, now?” he looked up at Mycroft, at Sherlock’s sole guardian, and did not seem concerned at all that Sherlock was not at his side.

Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella, just for a moment, until his rage subsided enough for him to speak.

“Right, thank you,” he said, nodding in acknowledgment before turning around to leave. Before he left entirely, though, he turned back around. “By the way, if you choose to have Sherlock write lines again, kindly don’t let him leave without knowing he’s with me. Makes things better that way.”

There was no remorse in his heart as he turned around, leaving his former teacher speechless at the bottom of the steps of the school, but the worry that had settled itself there about fifteen minutes ago only grew.

Sherlock had been seen last thirty minutes ago, so he had gotten out of detention fifteen minutes before Mycroft had arrived at the school to pick him up; if Sherlock had gone straight home from school after being released, he would’ve run into Mycroft on his way to pick him up.

Therefore, Sherlock did not go home.

Therefore, there was only one place in all of Panem the boy would’ve gone.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft knocked upon the door of the Watson household. Harriet Watson answered the door, looking pale as a ghost. He had noticed that the girl seemed terrified of him, despite how thick-skinned she seemed at all other times, and he knew it was because of everything she had seen him do in the Arena. Sometimes he wanted to pull her aside and promise her he wasn’t going to kill her, but most of the time he just strived to be extra pleasant with her, instead of the usual amount he gave to nearly everyone else in District 12.

“Hello, Harriet. Would you happen to know if my brother is here?” he asked, his worry making it difficult for him to smile, but he managed.

Harriet only seemed to grow more anxious as she stared up at him in shock for a moment, then, as if something jolted her, she stepped away from the door to let him inside and spoke.

“They’re in there,” she said quietly, pointing toward the kitchen.

And as Mycroft crossed the sitting room to the kitchen, he could hear water running, Sherlock’s unmistakable sob as he mumbled something unintelligible, and John Watson calling out to his sister.

“Harry, can you get more snow, please?! What we have’s almost –” Mycroft entered the kitchen as he yelled to Harriet, and John looked up from Sherlock’s face, a face that was turned almost completely away from the doorway. “– melted,” he said, much quieter, now that he had been caught.

Sherlock then turned around, trying to follow John’s gaze, until it landed upon his brother.

And Mycroft saw the carnage.

His eye was nearly swollen shut, a deep purple bruise blossoming so far across his face it nearly covered his nose –

 _Is his nose broken? No, it’s fine it’s not crooked; it was just a trick of the light_ –

His lip was also swollen, but also split and gushing blood, still, and judging by the needle and thread that was on the table, John was going to attempt to try to give it stitches –

 _It doesn’t need stitches, he hasn’t lost that much blood to warrant stitches. The boy is_ ten _he doesn’t need to play surgeon, not to mention he doesn’t even have the proper anesthetic or pain medicine_ –

The blood from his lip was dribbling down his chin, onto another detention slip pinned to his shirt that was almost serving as a bib for him, catching almost all of it, but there was still blood on his shirt, blood on his hands, blood on his ear from where he had obviously scratched an itch without washing his hands first, blood on his –

_Were those bruises on his throat? Yes, those definitely were – fingerprints, as if someone in an older grade had grabbed him by the throat and pinned him up against the wall –_

It was worse than it ever had been before. Ever since winning the Hunger Games, Mycroft had tried to stay ahead of the bullies, tried to hunt down and speak to whoever hurt his brother. Some of them had stopped, like Thomas Monroe, the District’s doctors’ son. Some of them, however, despite Mycroft’s best efforts, Sherlock refused to name. Mycroft tried to explain to him that he could make them stop; that he was a victor of the Hunger Games, that he had a body count, that he had _that power,_ now.

But obviously not.

He looked at his brother and realized that, even though everything had changed for the two of them, nothing had changed for Sherlock, at all. If anything, Sherlock’s life had only gotten worse.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft whispered finally, quietly, as Sherlock dissolved into a fresh wave of sobs. “Sherlock –” he said again, clearer, unsure of what exactly was going to come out of his mouth, just knowing he wanted to provide comfort, protection, everything he could possibly provide in just a single sentence –

But then Sherlock opened his mouth, silencing his brother, and something completely unintelligible came out.

“Sherlock, I don’t –” he started to say the phrase; the words he hadn’t repeated since he had spoken them twice to Dean Bainbridge in the Capitol. He was Mycroft Holmes, he had to understand _everything._ He just had to hear what Sherlock said one more time, that was all –

“I – I –” Sherlock tried again, and Mycroft focused all of his intelligence on deciphering what Sherlock was saying, though it turned out he didn’t need to. Sherlock took another shuddering breath, looked his brother in the eye, and said the single sentence that told Mycroft everything he needed to know: “I tried to have a good day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> I Do Not Care For The Winter Sun by Beach House (for winter for Mycroft)  
> Eat by Jack Conte (for Mycroft standing up to Sherlock's bullies (specifically the line "no one laughs at us))


	8. Contemplation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is consumed by his emotions of guilt in the wake of what happened to Sherlock; Mycroft makes a decision about his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide Ideation, Referenced Suicide.

Mycroft told Sherlock to stay at the Watson’s for the night. This was something Sherlock hadn’t done since Mycroft had returned from the Hunger Games, when Sherlock had taken it upon himself to make a place for himself in Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft never really minded; it helped to know his brother was always close by (although it was more than a little embarrassing for Mycroft whenever he woke up screaming in the middle of the night), but he was more than aware of the fact that, for two weeks in February, Sherlock would be unable to sleep by Mycroft’s side, thanks to the Victory Tour.

At the beginning of the month, he had approached the Watson parents, bringing it to their attention that, not only while Mycroft was on the Victory Tour but also when Mycroft had to return to the Capitol each summer for the Hunger Games, Sherlock would be without a guardian. He asked them, nearly begged them, if they could extend their kindness to the Holmes family again during those periods of time. Mr. Watson was a little more reluctant than his wife, but they still agreed to let Sherlock live with them while Mycroft was gone, at least until Mycroft deemed Sherlock old enough to be left in the Victor’s Village by himself. Mycroft had also asked if they would be open to letting Sherlock sleepover a night or two before the Victory Tour, just to make the transition easier for Sherlock, and they agreed to that, as well, even letting Mycroft choose the nights Sherlock was to sleep away from home. Until that moment, Mycroft had not gotten back to them about which nights he wanted Sherlock to sleepover.

Mycroft had not intended to deem that night the first practice night of Sherlock sleeping away from his brother. He had given thought about it, and thought about doing it one night two weeks before, and then another night the week before, so Sherlock didn’t feel rushed into it.

However, upon seeing the tears streaming down the battlefield of Sherlock’s face, hearing the fear of Mycroft’s disappointment in his voice, knowing that _he_ had caused it all, Mycroft couldn’t stand to look at his brother for another moment. There was a small part of him that knew the Watson parents would be concerned, would ask who hurt Sherlock and would bring it up to Mycroft the following day, but Mycroft truly wasn’t thinking that far into the future.

He just knew that _he_ had done this to Sherlock. _He_ had reduced him to this; to a scared little boy who thought that anything was better than facing his older brother. Sherlock had come home from school beaten and with multiple detention slips pinned to his shirt plenty of times before Mycroft was reaped, and never once before had Sherlock ever been ashamed of himself or scared of what their mother would say. He had never avoided coming home from school, no matter how bad he was. This was the first time it had ever happened, and it was all Mycroft’s fault.

And so, with only the instruction to John that Sherlock was to stay the night with them and that he was not to touch Sherlock with that needle by any means, he left, completely blocking out Sherlock’s cries of protest.

He couldn’t listen to them. He couldn’t be Sherlock’s guardian, as much as he wanted to be.

He couldn’t even eat. He couldn’t even sleep. He couldn’t even exist.

He couldn’t even survive.

The thoughts swirled around his head; thoughts he had tried to shut out, thoughts he tried not to think. He thought of how young he was, trying to take care of someone who was incredibly difficult to take care of, no matter how hard he tried not to be. He thought of the Capitol and the Hunger Games, the places he would have to return to each and every year until he died. He thought of his Arena, and how he would have to deal with it coming back to him every winter until he died. He thought of Anthea, and all of the other tributes he outlived, and how they would be forever in his head, their memories killing him every second until he died. He thought of the umbrella in his hand, the reasons why it was there, and how it would probably remain in his hand every day until the day he died.

Until he died.

Until he died.

Until he died.

There had to be a way out. And maybe there was, one that Mycroft hated to think about, hated to consider, but one that was quickly looking like his only option.

Death would be better than this. It had to be.

* * *

That evening, sick of sitting alone in the house he never felt like he truly deserved, but having no other place to go, Mycroft sat out on the porch, umbrella by his side, writing in his notebook and smoking a cigarette from a box he had bought off a Peacekeeper a few weeks ago.

He expressed his thoughts in the notebook, making a list of reasons why he could and couldn’t end his own life. There were so many reasons why he could: he wouldn’t have to return to the Capitol, he wouldn’t have to mentor, he wouldn’t have to live through another winter, he wouldn’t have to have another nightmare, he wouldn’t have to think about the tributes he had out-lived, he wouldn’t have to survive another minute living through this hell –

Mycroft couldn’t think of many reasons why he couldn’t end his life, but there was one; one that kept coming up, bigger and more important than any reason he could come up with, for either side:

Sherlock.

He had survived the Hunger Games for Sherlock. He went through hell and came back _for Sherlock,_ and now everything he did was for the boy.

However, Mycroft wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t doing everything the way he knew he should be. He tried; he sincerely tried, but the world was getting to be too overwhelming, and he took that anxiety out on the one person he had sworn to protect.

He just wanted everything to stop…

“Are you _smoking?”_

Mycroft looked up, shocked at the sight of Lindsay Cairns standing at the gate to his house.

“Lindsay?” he asked, quickly wiping his eyes before she noticed any tears on his face.

“When did you start doing _that?”_ she asked, face contorted in disgust and confusion as she walked through the gate and toward Mycroft, and Mycroft couldn’t blame her for her disgust.

“Couple of weeks ago,” he admitted quietly, eyeing the cigarette between his fingers.

 _“Why?”_ she asked, and Mycroft shrugged.

“The nicotine found in cigarettes is known to temporarily reduce stress and anxiety,” he replied simply, as if it was as easy as that.

“And slowly kills you, you _do_ know about that part, right?” she asked, stopping a few feet from him and crossing her arms. “It’s almost as bad as working in the mines, and you’re lucky enough to be exempt from that. You don’t do that around Sherlock, do you?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied. “I don’t even do it that much,” he lied, closing his notebook and placing in front of the two other cigarette butts on the porch. Up until now, the statement had been true; he never smoked more than one cigarette every couple of days. Today was the only day he smoked more than one, but he didn’t need Lindsay to give him more of a lecture than she already was.

As the daughter of the man who buried a whole generation of people from District 12 and was nowhere near done, Lindsay had seen a lot of mourners. She learned quickly that, no matter how someone died, they were always leaving someone behind when they passed, and so she hated seeing people throw their lives away. She was particularly angry about Mrs. Holmes committing suicide for this reason; she had left Mycroft and Sherlock behind, and, if Mycroft died, he would be leaving Sherlock behind again.

“What are you doing here?” Mycroft asked, finally.

“I know you said not to mention it, but…” she started, then faltered a moment, trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say next without saying the words that Mycroft had banned for this year, at least. “…I wanted to see how you were doing. I waited for you after school and you weren’t –”

“Sherlock had detention,” he replied quickly, taking a final drag of his cigarette before snubbing it out on the wood below him. He meant to keep it at that, but his mouth continued moving as he waved the smoke away from him, and he let it happen. “However, Mr. Lobber let him go early because he decided he didn’t want to deal with him, and Sherlock ended up getting…his bullies, you know how they are…” he could feel the lump growing in his throat, and he let it happen. “…He went to the Watson’s. It was worse than anything he’s ever gotten and he didn’t go to me…” he saw his vision was growing blurry from the tears in his eyes, and he let it happen.

“Mycroft, are you okay?” Lindsay asked softly, stepping closer, putting her hand on the railing of the porch.

“I’m fine,” he replied, because he had to be. He _had_ to be fine, he _had_ to be alright, he had no other choice –

“No, you’re not. Please, talk to me, Mycroft,” she said, so gently it made Mycroft want to shout at her. He didn’t need her pity. He didn’t need anyone’s pity –

He glanced at her though, just for a moment, and remembered who he was looking at.

It was Lindsay Cairns. She was the girl who had sought him out after the mine explosion; the girl who had been understanding when Mycroft realized he didn’t hold a physical attraction to her like he knew he probably should; the girl who had told him that she had always believed in him when he returned from the Hunger Games; the girl who had raged for him when his mother died. She was the girl who was seeing him cry, right now, for the first time ever, and didn’t look at him with pity. Lindsay Cairns would forever be the last person to pity Mycroft Holmes, and he knew that.

So, he spoke:

“I’m failing,” he admitted quietly. He felt incredibly weak for saying the words out loud, but at the same time, they needed to be said. Someone needed to hear them. For a long time he thought that perhaps that person would be Dean, but, given that Mycroft was warned against saying anything he wouldn’t want to be repeated over the phone, he hadn’t spoken them to him.

“Failing? Failing what?” Lindsay asked, and Mycroft softly scoffed at the list of options to choose from.

“Sherlock. Myself. My life. Everything, really, when you think about it. I am failing absolutely everything and everyone around me, when I should be completely fine, and therefore I am failing at _that,_ too.”

“Well, you’re not failing me,” Lindsay informed him, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Of course I have. You’ve surely noticed our conversations don’t flow as smoothly as they used to.”

“I’m not keeping tabs on that, Mycroft,” she tried to assure him.

“You _have_ noticed, nonetheless.”

Lindsay was silent for a moment, before finally nodding.

“A little bit. But –”

“I’m also positive you’ve noticed my anxiety increase ever since the beginning of winter, am I wrong?”

“You know the answer to that,” Lindsay replied, which was always what she said when she knew that he was right but didn’t want to outwardly admit it (which was always).

“We are both more than aware that I haven’t been the same since returning from the Hunger Games,” he stated his hypothesis, and Lindsay nodded slowly.

Mycroft leaned forward, putting his head in his hands.

“I thought I could be the best guardian for Sherlock, I thought I could be whoever the Capitol wants me to be whenever they want me to be it. I thought that if I just survived the Hunger Games, everything would be alright, but it’s not, _I’m_ not –” he took a deep breath, choking back a sob. “I thought I could handle it – they called me the Ice Man!” he exclaimed, looking back up at Lindsay. “I was _ice!_ I didn’t feel _anything!_ Even before the Hunger Games! Now I can’t go an hour without thinking about that Arena, and I have so many other things I need to be focused on, and this snow isn’t helping!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the snowflakes gently falling down around them; the beginning of an overnight snowfall that neither of them wanted. “I just feel so…” he started, and he caught himself gesturing to Lindsay. Not just Lindsay, but everyone who was like Lindsay. Everyone who thought that “I don’t know” was a viable answer to any question; everyone who looked at the world but did not observe it; everyone who wasn’t as smart as either of the surviving Holmes children.

“It’s okay, you can say it,” Lindsay promised him.

“…stupid,” he said, finally, saying the word that he would never choose to describe Lindsay herself, though it would have been the first word he chose to describe anyone from the Capitol, for those people were so thoughtless that the word was the only word he could use to describe them. They were stupid, and he never thought he would put himself in the same group as them, but here he was. “I’ve always been so used to being the smartest person in the room and I’m coming to the realization that I’m not, anymore.”

“You’re still the smartest person in the room,” Lindsay informed him, and Mycroft shook his head.

“I noticed it first when I was in the Capitol. They all knew so much more than I did; they weren’t all geniuses, of course, but they knew things about the Hunger Games, and they knew things about the life after. Things that I didn’t even think about. I didn’t even know what a _phone_ was, Lindsay! How can something so simple to them be so out of my depth?”

“But you’ll learn – you _are_ learning – you know what a phone is and you know –”

“You don’t understand. I can learn everything they know, everything there _is_ to know, and it won’t change anything. It won’t change how I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s happened or how I thought that I could live beyond the Hunger Games just as I had before. How could I have been so blind, thinking that everything would return to normal if I only tried hard enough? I was completely wrong; I’m _never_ wrong! The only thing I’ve really learned is that surviving _through_ the Hunger Games is a lot easier than surviving life _after_ the Hunger Games, and no one tells you that until it’s too late,” he said, finally stating what he had known since the day he returned from the Arena.

“Would you have changed it, though? If you could go back?” Lindsay asked, after a moment, and Mycroft immediately shook his head.

“Of course not. He needs me. I have to be there for Sherlock –” he started, but as he said his name his voice cracked, and a new wave of tears collapsed down his face. “He’s scared of me, Lindsay. _Me!_ I’m his _brother –_ I’m his _guardian_ – and he’s _scared –”_

He hadn’t thought of it before, but looking back, looking back at everything, _especially_ back at the events of that day, he knew it was true. Sherlock had been so afraid of disappointing him that he couldn’t even face him when he thought he had. He ran and he hid at John Watson’s house; he would rather an unqualified ten-year-old trying to stitch his face together than risking Mycroft see him in that state.

“I don’t think he’s afraid of you –”

“Haven’t you noticed? _Everyone_ is afraid of me. I think even you are, a small amount, because a part of you, even though you wanted me to survive, didn’t think I had the ability to kill. The Watson girl won’t even look at me, for Christ’s sake. The only reason why anyone here respects me, the only reason why I can stand up to half of Sherlock’s bullies and teachers when I need to, is because I’ve killed people.”

“And you’ve used that to your advantage,” Lindsay reminded him.

“I have no other choice,” Mycroft replied. “It was either that or sit there and let it happen. I can’t do that to him; the only reason why I did it before was because I didn’t think anyone would listen to me, back then. Then everything changed…” He gestured to the world around them, and he knew he didn’t need to say more.

“But Sherlock’s love for you hasn’t,” Lindsay offered, and, surprisingly, it caught Mycroft off guard. She was right. “Mycroft, he _adores_ you, we both know it, and I don’t think any amount of bodies you’ve put between the two of you will ever change that. I don’t think he’s afraid of _you_ – if anything, I think he’s afraid that he’s a burden to you.”

“He’s nine, he doesn’t even comprehend what that means,” Mycroft scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, well. He knows you worry about him. He knows he’s under your care, and he probably knows that you’re stressed. Given the fact that all the other adults in his life right now either don’t want to deal with him or try to change him in ways he just can’t be changed, maybe he’s afraid you feel the same way they do. Do you want my advice?”

If Lindsay had asked Mycroft this before the Hunger Games, he would’ve outright refused, which was why he had never heard her ask this, before. However, as they had agreed upon just a minute ago, everything had changed, and Mycroft was not the person he used to be.

“Of course,” he said, and Lindsay seemed surprised for a second that he hadn’t shut her down.

“I think, even though yes, Sherlock _needs_ a guardian, he just wants his brother. He wants _you,_ changed or not,” Lindsay replied, and Mycroft knew, again, that she was right. “And you? I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You’re getting up and you’re taking care of him every day, despite everything; that’s something to be proud of, Mycroft. Yes, you have a head that won’t stop for two seconds and you’ve picked up a _nasty_ habit, –” she gestured to the cigarettes. “– but you _are_ surviving.”

Mycroft pursed his lips in the attempt of a smile, but that was alright.

“Thank you, Lindsay.”

“Of course, what are friends for?” she asked, smiling for a moment, before a thought occurred to her. “What time is it, by the way?” she asked, and Mycroft checked his pocket watch.

“Quarter-of eight o’clock, why?”

“Damn, I’ve got to get back; I told my dad I’d be home by eight. I just wanted to check in on you, though, and –” she closed the distance between them, bending over to give Mycroft a hug. “– birthday hugs.”

“It’s not supposed to be my birthday today, remember?” Mycroft reminded her.

“Shush, rules are rules and you need one, today,” Lindsay replied.

“Why did I agree to birthday hugs, again?” Mycroft asked. They had first agreed upon them around Lindsay’s twelfth birthday, upon learning that Mycroft was not a huge fan of physical displays of affection. The agreement was simple: they were allowed one hug on each of their birthdays, but each year Mycroft hoped Lindsay would let the tradition slide unnoticed. Unfortunately for him, though, she always remembered.

“Because, in your own words, it was ‘more desirable than being ambushed at random intervals’,” Lindsay quoted, standing up straight so she could give the proper air quotes where they were needed.

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” Mycroft said, almost chuckling.

“You’re going to be alright, though?” she asked, tilting her head in concern. “Seriously?”

“Yes, of course I’ll be alright,” Mycroft replied, nodding, though he didn’t sound absolutely convincing to his own ears. “Thank you for coming, though. I appreciate it,” he said quietly, and Lindsay smiled and said her goodbye, beginning to walk back home. However, when she reached the gate, a thought occurred to her, and she turned back around. She watched Mycroft for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to word what she wanted to say, and Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

After a moment’s more of pause, Lindsay sighed.

“Just…don’t do anything stupid,” she said, very quietly, and Mycroft understood immediately exactly what she was asking of him.

He gave her a sad, small smile.

“Impossible.”

Lindsay returned his smile, and with a small wave, she passed through the gate, leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts once again.

And though the contemplation had been circling his head ever since he had abandoned Sherlock at the Watson’s, and even though he had a pros and cons list and a journal entry in the notebook next to him to prove it, the thoughts themselves had seemed to settle within his head.

He couldn’t just leave; he couldn’t just give up. He couldn’t just leave Sherlock behind like everyone else had, or was prepared to do at a moment’s notice.

He could survive the flashbacks and the nightmares, as much as he didn’t want to. He would survive, just as he had within the Arena.

He would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> 17 by Perfume Genius  
> Space Enough To Grow by Of Mice and Men


	9. Contract.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes on his Victory Tour; President Snow informs him of the way things are; Mycroft and President Snow make a deal.

The month following Mycroft’s birthday went by smoother than expected. Yes, he had to answer to Mr. and Mrs. Watson the following morning about the state of Sherlock’s face, and yes he still had to survive the flashbacks and nightmares and the constant onslaught of thoughts about the people he had outlived, but he was surviving.

There was a massive snowstorm the night before Sherlock’s tenth birthday, blanketing the District in a three-foot layer of snow, canceling school for the day, much to the boy’s delight. Even though a part of Mycroft wanted more than anything to avoid stepping outside into a snow that felt _entirely_ too much like the snow in the Arena, he was dead set upon giving Sherlock a good birthday to counterbalance how awful Mycroft’s birthday had been for the both of them. Thus, he walked out in the brutal cold and three feet of snow, umbrella in hand, in nothing but pants and a turtleneck sweater to retrieve a cake for him, still unable to wear a coat. The flashbacks were nearly too overwhelming for Mycroft, but the look on Sherlock’s face upon seeing the cake made every second of it worth it.

Their relationship had gotten better after Mycroft’s birthday. Mycroft had taken Lindsay’s advice, appointing himself as a brother first, and a guardian when necessary, and it was obvious that Sherlock was beyond thankful. He took Sherlock’s detentions and bullies as they came, and they never again strived for a “good day.” The good days would come; days where Sherlock would rush home exclaiming that he didn’t get in trouble that day, but those would come years down the line, and Mycroft kept that in mind. Sherlock was still a child, after all, as Mycroft was repeatedly reminded.

Sometimes Sherlock would ask about the Hunger Games, and sometimes Mycroft would answer him, if the question didn’t have that harrowing of an answer. Sometimes he would soften the answer, like when Sherlock asked about the Avoxes; sometimes he told Sherlock the complete and total truth, like when Sherlock asked about the food. He would tell Sherlock everything in full, with time.

They still played deductions, but he didn’t scold him when he was incorrect, anymore. Yes, he still insisted that knowing was better than showing, but that was only for Sherlock’s sake. The only time he really reprimanded Sherlock after his birthday was the day before Mycroft had to leave for the Victory Tour, when Sherlock decided it would be a good idea to publically exclaim that he hated President Snow and the Hunger Games and didn’t immediately quiet himself when Mycroft asked him to the first time. He had shouted at him, really, but that was only because Sherlock’s statements were getting the attention of the head Peacekeeper of District 12, Wilbur Cray. If Peacekeeper Cray was any stricter than he was, he would’ve gone straight to President Snow to inform him of Sherlock’s opinions, but lucky for them, he wasn’t. Of course, Peacekeeper Cray suggested Mycroft “teach that boy some respect,” but Mycroft only fed him a quick lie that he would. However, as soon as they returned home, Mycroft, as bluntly as he dared, explained to Sherlock the dangers of publically saying things like what he had, and why it suddenly seemed to bother Mycroft now. He did not stop him from doing it, however; Sherlock could criticize the Capitol and everything it stood for within the safety of his own home, and Sherlock seemed to understand.

The next day, Mycroft started on the Victory Tour, leaving Sherlock and District 12 behind for the first of the many times he would have to over the years to come. He went around from District to District, delivering speeches that were written out for him, speaking of the tributes he never stopped thinking about, and meeting all of the other victors of the Hunger Games that were still alive.

Despite the fact that he was giving these speeches while still recovering from a root canal he underwent a few days before, the hardest part of the Victory Tour was not the physical pain of his mouth. In fact, it was something so simple that Mycroft hadn’t even thought about it until the day he was to leave: he was obligated to wear winter attire. Not just a coat, but also gloves, a hat, and a scarf. Not just once, either; with every stop there was a brand new outfit he had to wear, and a good portion of them involved the winter attire that he so dreaded. He was lucky that he was allowed to keep his umbrella for the speeches, and having that did seem to help him. In the beginning of the tour, Mycroft thought he’d end up trying to find ways to burn the coats and hats and gloves. At the end of the tour, however, Mycroft surprised himself with the thought that perhaps after having to endure it over and over again for the tour, he’d be less averse to wearing winter attire in the future.

There were tiny sections of him that thought that he was recovering from the trauma of the Hunger Games, and he was beginning to notice them more and more. He was even looking forward to the banquet in the Capitol, and he had every reason to. It was the end of the tour, he’d be going home just after, the food was going to be fantastic, and so far everything that day had gone according to plan: Mycroft gave a speech, joined Caesar Flickerman for his check-in interview, and was then whisked away to President Snow’s mansion for the Victory Tour Banquet.

However, before Mycroft even got to the door, the President of Panem, President Coriolanus Snow, stood in his way, eager to speak with him in his office.

Mycroft had only officially met the man once, and that was during his crowning ceremony just after he had won the Hunger Games. The two had never spoken privately, and Mycroft had _never_ been into the President’s office. Mrs. Hudson assured him that everything was alright, ushering him to follow President Snow, letting him leave her behind.

He had a feeling, however, that this was not a friendly visit.

President Snow’s meeting room was stark-white, despite the fact that evening had settled upon the Capitol hours ago; Mycroft could feel himself squinting as they went from the warm, golden glow of the rest of the mansion into the bright white office. A small fraction of him was brutally reminded of last summer, when Mycroft had risen out of the catacombs and into the snow-white Arena, but Mycroft kept the thought away. There was no snow in this room (except for the man himself, but that was just a coincidence). There were only a lot of white objects. White floors and ceilings, white walls, white roses in each corner in white vases, white garments on the Avox standing next to one of the vases in the far corner of the room (as opposed to the usual red), white table and chairs…

“Please, have a seat, Mister Holmes,” President Snow ordered, grinning as he gestured to a chair at the end of the table closest to the door; one of the only two chairs in the room, the other being at the other end of the table. Mycroft quickly obeyed, sitting down at the desired end of the table, his hand sweating against the handle of his umbrella.

Was this about Sherlock? Had Peacekeeper Cray told him about what he had caught Sherlock saying? What this about _him?_ Perhaps President Snow had eyes in District 12; perhaps Mycroft wasn’t adjusting as well as he should have been? Had he been listening in on his phone calls to Dean, where he would admit just that? Perhaps he had seen that Mycroft was smarter than him; perhaps he was threatened by that.

“First of all, I should congratulate you again on your Hunger Games victory. How’s the life of a victor treating you, Mister Holmes? Well, I would assume,” he said, taking his place at the head of the table and folding his hands before him. Mycroft studied his eyes for split second; there was not an ounce of suspicion or fear of inferiority in his eyes.

Mycroft wanted to keep things that way. He had to be as unassuming as possible. He had to be civilian.

“Of course; thank you, Sir,” Mycroft replied smoothly, and President Snow smiled.

“I also must thank you for allowing me to pull you away from this evening’s festivities; I’m sure you’re eager to get to them.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, trying to smile back. It wasn’t as if he had much of a choice; he couldn’t just refuse a meeting with Panem’s President, but he couldn’t say that out loud.

“I am, indeed,” Mycroft said, hoping that was the correct response.

President Snow chuckled; this was a good sign.

“Well, let’s make this quick then, shall we?” he said, picking up a small stack of papers from the table and flipping through them idly as he spoke. “This shouldn’t take long, anyway.”

Mycroft was itching to ask what “this” could possibly be, but he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t there to ask questions. He wasn’t there to be curious. He was there to smile and nod, and apologize and beg for forgiveness if he needed to.

“I’ve noticed you and Dean Bainbridge have become friendly,” he noted casually. “You two have made quite a few calls to each other over the last few months.”

So this was about Dean. That could simply be covered up with a lie, one that Mycroft would have to catch up with Dean about later.

“Yes; he gave me his number after the Hunger Games last summer,” Mycroft replied. “He thought he could help me adjust to life after the victory.”

“Adjust?” President Snow asked, raising an eyebrow, pausing his search through his papers to look at Mycroft, as if the life after the Hunger Games was not a life he needed to adjust to.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, mouth suddenly dry. “Figuring out the ordering system, things like that,” he said, mentally kicking himself for not being able to think of more than one example. If he wasn’t so panicked, he’d be able to think of more, surely.

President Snow chuckled again, returning his attention to the papers.

“Ah, yes, I see how that can be an adjustment for someone not used to the splendor of luxury.” He finally found the papers he was looking for, Mycroft supposed, for he separated the papers into two smaller stacks and looked up at Mycroft. “So, that must mean that you know exactly what happens next, I’m sure?”

The feeling of stupidity was beginning to eke its way back into Mycroft’s heart, but he tried to keep it at bay, or at least keep President Snow from seeing it as he spoke.

“I’m aware that I have to return to the Capitol every year to mentor the new tributes from District Twelve.”

At this, Snow raised his eyebrows as he smirked; Mycroft had given him the wrong answer, apparently. Not a dangerous answer, thankfully; just the incorrect one.

“Actually, you’ll be returning to the Capitol quite a few times in the coming future,” President Snow informed him, and Mycroft tried his hardest not to react. Dean hadn’t told him that. He remembered what Dean had said; he said February for the Victory Tour and then summer for the Hunger Games, that’s how it always had been.

So what the hell was President Snow talking about?

Mycroft grit his teeth together, refusing to let the question pass through his lips. President Snow would not get the satisfaction of knowing that, once again, just like every time he came to the Capitol, it seemed, Mycroft had no idea what was going on.

“Ever since your victory of the Hunger Games last summer, quite a few of my citizens have requested and paid to meet with you, Mister Holmes. A lot of people, actually, it would seem,” he added, flipping through one of the first papers on the larger stack; a list of names and information. “This is not uncommon of new tributes, however your list is…quite extensive, for some reason or another. You certainly aren’t the most attractive victor in recent years, though I can understand the appeal…” he drifted off for a moment as he reviewed the names, until he finally snapped back to reality and looked up at Mycroft, smiling pleasantly, as if this was just a business deal. “Some of these people – your future clients – have gone into detail, and some have not, but I think we can both imagine what they’re looking for, at the end of the day.”

For a split second, Mycroft couldn’t imagine what they could possibly want him for. He understood he was a celebrity in the Capitol’s eyes; maybe seeing him on television wasn’t enough. Did they want an interview? His autograph? Did they want him to –

And all at once, it hit him:

They wanted his body.

These people, people who chased after greatness, wanted to get as close to it as possible, wanted his body. They wanted to walk around with the knowledge that they could buy whatever they wanted, including victors of the Hunger Games; including him.

He must have made some sign of realizing what President Snow was talking about, for President Snow then passed one of the packets and a pen to the Avox who was still in the room and the Avox crossed the room to Mycroft, laying the packet and the pen on the table before him.

“Starting next month, you will be living in the Capitol, in a room that we have provided for you, so that you may meet with your clients,” President Snow ordered. “You will not have to pay for a thing. All of the Capitol’s luxuries will be at your disposal.”

He did not mention that Mycroft _would_ be paying, for everything, only not with actual money.

President Snow allowed Mycroft to read through the packet (his contract, he quickly realized) and Mycroft could barely keep his hands from shaking as he flipped through the pages, his heart hammering in his chest more and more with each phrase that leaped out at him:

_Mycroft Holmes will remain in the Capitol in the apartment assigned to him until he is no longer requested by future clients._

_Mycroft Holmes will have a manager assigned to him for as long as he has clients._

_Mycroft Holmes will return to District 12 only when he has no other clients to meet with._

_Mycroft Holmes will not be in charge of scheduling his appointments; this will be up to his manager._

_If Mycroft Holmes returns to District 12 and is then requested by a client, Mycroft Holmes must return to the Capitol to meet with his client._

But more than any of those, the one that scared him the most, the one that made him want to vomit, was one of the last orders of the contract:

_Mycroft Holmes cannot refuse any client._

So Mycroft would just have to do whatever these sick people asked of him, no matter who or what it was? If Mycroft deduced they were violent, or had violent intentions for him, he would just have to let them do whatever they wanted to him?

“Your clients also have similar contracts to sign,” President Snow informed him, as if he could read his mind. “That would be the second packet in your stack, there, if you’d like to take a look.”

Mycroft put his contract aside and looked over the copy of the client’s contract that was provided for him, quickly reading over the clauses. The rules of clients being unable to kill or physically maim Mycroft put him slightly at ease, until his eyes skimmed over the rule obligating the use of protection; a repeat of a clause Mycroft had found in his own contract.

He glanced back at his own packet, open to the last page, the dotted line on the bottom of the form demanding his signature; his consent to take away his consent. He didn’t want this. He never wanted this; he couldn’t even kiss Lindsay when they were dating, and now he was expected to –

“I can’t sign this,” Mycroft finally said, looking up at President Snow, hoping he sounded more emotionally reserved than he felt.

President Snow raised his eyebrows, completely taken aback. Apparently, no one had ever said “no” to President Snow, before now. That, or no one had ever said “no” to President Snow and got away with it.

“And why not?” he asked.

 _Mycroft Holmes cannot refuse any client._ The sentence repeated in his head, but Mycroft kept his mouth shut, pursing his lips. There were so many reasons why not, but none that Mycroft could use to sway President Snow’s decision; none, except the one thing he hated talking about to anyone from the Capitol. None, except –

“My brother,” he said. “Sherlock – he’s just turned ten years old. He’s already lost his father and mother and he almost lost me; he still needs a guardian. If I live here, he’ll be completely on his own; he can’t survive by himself.”

At this, President Snow shrugged.

“Well, that has a simple enough solution: Sherlock can come with you,” he said, smiling at his own kindness, and Mycroft couldn’t help but realize he hated the way the President said his brother’s name, hated it more than when anyone else in the Capitol said it. “I do believe it says in your contract that you will not be meeting your clients in your apartment, am I correct? He can live in the apartment with you, and your manager can hire the necessary nannies and tutors to watch over your little brother while you’re out with your clients.”

Mycroft watched President Snow carefully, and he knew the man wasn’t lying or trying to trick Mycroft into signing the contract.

It was an extremely gracious offer, Mycroft gave him that. In fact, it was everything that Mycroft had ever wanted for Sherlock. He thought back to District 12, just for a second, reminding himself of everything he would be taking Sherlock away from. The bullies, the poverty, the pain and the hunger; there had been so many times over the last few years and especially over the last few months that Mycroft had wished that he could remove Sherlock from that world.

But now, as he sat in the Capitol, with President Snow himself offering Mycroft the opportunity to take Sherlock away from District 12 and everything in it…

“No,” he said finally, setting his jaw. “Thank you for the offer, but it wouldn’t work out well.”

“And why not?” President Snow asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Sherlock is not like other children,” Mycroft said. For half of a second, he considered mentioning the theory that he had about his brother, the one that he had only ever mentioned once to Dean, but quickly decided against it. He wouldn’t demean Sherlock that way, not unless he absolutely had to. Besides, President Snow wanted facts, not theories. “He needs normalcy; he craves routine. I’m sure you saw his interview last summer; he bit that Kitty Riley woman. He lashed out because his routine changed; his mother was gone and I was in the Arena. If we were to go and completely uproot his life… I already get complaints from his teachers, and that’s with his schedule completely unchanged; I can only imagine the complaints my manager would get from whomever they hire.”

At this, President Snow chuckled, and Mycroft mentally prepared himself for President Snow to wave him off.

“I can assure you the payment will outweigh the risk.”

“And if he bites _them?”_ Mycroft countered. “They could request more money as compensation. Will the payment outweigh the risk then?”

The room was silent for a moment as President Snow considered his options. Mycroft watched his face carefully, his mind searching for a rebuttal to any idea President Snow could possibly cook up. He had to find a way out of this, this contract and this life that President Snow was forcing him into. There had to be something Mycroft could say to completely change his mind.

“Well,” President Snow finally said, folding his hands in front of him on the table. “We could always eliminate the dilemma; that would certainly solve the problem, wouldn’t it?”

Mycroft’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting what Mycroft thought he was suggesting. When Sherlock had bad-mouthed the Capitol the day before the Victory Tour, Mycroft had told him that the Peacekeepers or the Capitol could take Sherlock away from him; he always knew it was a possibility, if Sherlock wasn’t careful or if Mycroft wasn’t careful with his brother. The look in President Snow’s eyes did not suggest simply taking him away, however; they implied something much darker, an idea that Mycroft would rather die than consider.

“There’s no need to do that,” Mycroft said quietly, trying to keep himself from pleading.

“Then what do you propose, Mister Holmes?” President Snow asked, a smirk slowly appearing on his face. He obviously thought he had won, and Mycroft hated to agree.

But then he had an idea. One last idea; one last struggle before completely surrendering.

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll live in the Capitol and see as many clients as you and my manager line up. I’ll do it all…once Sherlock turns eighteen.” President Snow raised his eyebrows again, opening his mouth to argue, but Mycroft continued before he could. “He’ll be an adult, he’ll be out of school, and he’ll be able to work. He won’t be my responsibility anymore.”

It was another long minute as President Snow stared at Mycroft, considering his words carefully. Mycroft’s blood rushed in his ears with anxiety as he kept a straight face, praying that Snow would listen; that he would understand and accept Mycroft’s limitation, instead of simply deciding that it would be better (no, _easier_ ) to simply kill the one person Mycroft had left…

“I believe that we can make that amendment,” he said, and Mycroft nearly melted with relief.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said, and President Snow quietly ordered the Avox to go fetch “his holo” from his office; it was something electronic, Mycroft knew that, but didn’t know much beyond that.

After a moment, the Avox returned with a small dome-shaped object and a small rectangular object that looked similar to the remote Mycroft was given to watch the past Hunger Games with last summer. President Snow pressed a button on the dome, and a screen appeared between them out of thin air, altering their view of the other, but not obscuring it completely. Using the rectangular piece of glass, President Snow pulled up an electronic copy of Mycroft’s contract and typed out the new clause. Mycroft, being able to read the words even though they were reversed, watched him type out every word, until –

“Eighteen,” Mycroft said quietly, before he could stop himself.

“Hm?” President Snow asked, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement, but not looking away from the screen.

“I believe we agreed on moving me to the Capitol once Sherlock turned eighteen,” Mycroft said, even though he knew exactly what the agreement was. “You’ve typed twelve, Sir,” Mycroft added quickly, knowing that he could get into serious trouble for trying to correct the President of Panem.

President Snow finally looked at Mycroft.

“Yes, I know what I typed,” he said.

“But –” Mycroft started.

“If we wait nearly a decade for you to meet your clients, they will all have moved on to more famous and more attractive victors,” President Snow replied before Mycroft could continue. “You will lose all the clients you’ve gained and we can’t have that. However, I believe your clients would be willing to wait the two years allotted to see you.”

“But Sherlock –” Mycroft began to protest, but President Snow cut him off again.

“He’ll be old enough to be reaped into the Hunger Games. Your winnings will support his livelihood. Your house in the Victors Village will keep a roof over his head. He will be old enough to survive.”

Mycroft set his jaw. Twelve was too soon; twelve was _not_ old enough to survive. A quick glance at the ages of all the victors of the Hunger Games was proof enough of that.

“Then I can’t stay any longer than twelve hours at a time, and I can only come to the Capitol once a week,” Mycroft said, and Snow pursed his lips as he considered this. “I’m still his legal guardian; I need to make sure he goes to school every day and does his homework and eat and go to bed on time. If my brother is left to his own devices he won’t do any of those things.”

After a moment, President Snow replied.

“Of course,” he said simply, and went back to typing. “We can make those arrangements, I suppose. When is your brother’s birthday?” he asked.

“The sixth of January,” Mycroft replied, still in shock as to what he was agreeing to and, for a moment, the thoughts he had been pushing away since his birthday returned.

Death would definitely be better than this…

Mycroft blinked away the thought as the Avox presented him with the new copy of the contract, fresh and ready for him to sign.

Two years. It wasn’t the eight years Mycroft was hoping for, but it was better than nothing. It was better than starting this new phase of hell next month. Besides, Mycroft was out of excuses. It was either this or losing Sherlock and having to live in the Capitol next month, anyway.

And so, with his hand shaking ever so slightly, Mycroft signed the contract, selling his body to the Capitol.

At the knowledge that he had won, President Snow smiled a sick sort of grin that made Mycroft’s stomach turn, then he quickly dismissed Mycroft to the banquet.

Mycroft left the office, feeling more violated than he ever had in his life. However, he knew full well that this was merely the tip of the iceberg. As long as he was a victor, the Capitol would use him and flaunt him around however they saw fit, no matter how Mycroft felt about it.

Mycroft needed a cigarette. He needed a cigarette, and he needed to see Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> The Last Snowstorm of the Year by Hippo Campus (for getting Sherlock's cake)  
> If Winter Ends by Bright Eyes


	10. Plans.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has had enough.

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft stood on the roof of the Training Center, taking deep drags from the cigarette between his fingers and watching the smoke float into the night sky, waiting for Dean to arrive. He was lucky Dean had chosen to attend the banquet, even if he had decided he would do this last summer. The second the two found each other in the banquet hall, Dean greeted Mycroft with open arms, shaking his hand and pulling him into a hug, but Mycroft had other things on his mind. As they hugged, Mycroft mumbled the two words he had spoken to Dean only once over the summer, minutes after he discovered that his mother had taken her own life.

“Roof. Now,” he mumbled quietly, trying not to sound as panicked as he felt. As soon as he let go, he gave Dean a parting nod and left him standing in the middle of the crowd, just as he had before.

He was so deep in thought he didn’t even hear Dean arrive until he spoke:

“Since when do you smoke?” he asked, the door already closed behind him. Dean had been standing there for at least a minute, if not more, just watching Mycroft’s back.

Mycroft spun around to face his friend.

“Am I not allowed a vice?” he asked, exasperated.

“No, you are, absolutely, I just…I didn’t take you as a person who did that, I guess,” Dean said, shrugging. “How’s everything at home? How’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft grit his teeth, just like he did every time Dean mentioned his name, unable to shake the need to protect the boy’s identity that struck his core every time someone from the Capitol spoke his brother’s name (and Mycroft _did_ consider Dean to be from the Capitol, even if he was simply just a member of a Career District). Dean had said it a couple times over the phone, and it didn’t seem to affect Mycroft as much there; perhaps it was the location? Or the fact that Dean was no longer a disembodied voice that only existed within the phone and was in fact a living, breathing person in front of him?

“Nothing’s changed since the last update,” Mycroft replied, wanting to get to the point, but then he realized that wasn’t true. “Actually, he decided to badmouth President Snow in front of our head Peacekeeper the day before I left for the Victory Tour,” he quickly amended.

“Shit, that wasn’t smart,” Dean said, taking a seat in his usual chair, and Mycroft grimaced.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Did either of you get in trouble?” Dean asked.

“No; he’s practically known us since we were born, he knows us well enough to know that Sherlock’s prone to these outbursts now and again. He did imply that I should beat him, however,” he added, and Dean was smart enough not to ask if he did or not. He was not smart enough, however, to keep himself from pointing back at the cigarette, after a moment.

“…You don’t smoke around Sherlock, do you?” Dean asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Why does _everyone_ keep asking me that?! Do I honestly look _that_ irresponsible?!” he asked, much louder than he wanted to be.

“No, Mycroft, I was just –” Dean started, but Mycroft was already more than fed up with the situation.

“Fine, do you know what? I’ll just get rid of it,” Mycroft decided, and tossed it off the roof with an air of finality before turning back to Dean. “There; it’s gone, now.”

“Um –” Dean started, but before he could continue, the cigarette soared back up onto the roof and landed at Mycroft’s feet.

For a moment, Mycroft did nothing but stare at the cigarette that acted as a cruel reminder that this was not his world, and finally, Mycroft sighed.

“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered, stepping on the butt, cursing the anti-fall technology that prevented Mycroft from making his point.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked after a moment, after he deemed himself safe to speak without Mycroft snapping at him. “You seem really…agitated.”

“President Snow called me into his office.”

“Oh,” Dean said quietly, glancing away from Mycroft.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mycroft asked. “You knew the whole time; why didn’t you think it would be a good idea to tell me?”

“And when would it have been a good time?” Dean asked in return. “Put yourself in my position. You’ve been battling nightmares with sleeping pills and trying to take care of your brother because no one else can; when would you say would have been a good time to tell you that Snow was going to call you in and force you to sign that contract?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. Dean was right; there was no good time. There was no right time. If Dean said a word about the contract before now, he would’ve just been adding it to the long list of new stressors in Mycroft’s life, and perhaps it would’ve been enough to push Mycroft over the edge on his birthday.

Mycroft wasn’t one to tell anyone they were right, however.

“He offered me a place in the Capitol,” he said instead. “Sherlock, as well.”

Dean raised his eyebrows.

“I’m surprised you have that many clients.”

“How do you know how many I have?” Mycroft asked. Christ, _he_ didn’t even have an exact number!

“I don’t – I just know that I didn’t have enough for Snow to offer me a place.”

“So you’ve had clients?” Mycroft asked, and Dean avoided his eyes.

“A few, yeah,” he said quietly, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow in expectance, and waited for Dean to meet his eyes again. When he finally did, he sighed in defeat. “Seven. I’ve had seven clients, so far.”

“So I have more than seven?” Mycroft assumed, and Dean shrugged.

“I would imagine,” he said, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Why?” he asked, sinking down to his own seat. “What the hell do these people want?” he asked before catching himself. “Don’t answer that; I know what they want. Why do they want what they want, though?”

“Everyone wants to be close to greatness. Some…closer than others. Some clients just want to talk or have dinner,” Dean added, trying to lighten the situation.

“But not all of them,” Mycroft deadpanned, already knowing the answer before Dean could even say it, but he said it anyway.

“Unfortunately, no,” Dean affirmed.

“How many of yours just wanted to talk or have dinner?” Mycroft asked.

“Two,” Dean admitted, and Mycroft sighed. Two out of seven was not a good ratio. Then again, when have the odds _ever_ been good for them?

“What makes _me_ so special? What makes me more special than you?”

“Well, you’re the first victor to win from District Twelve; that’s got to be something,” Dean offered. “And you’re the most intelligent victor we’ve had in a while, so that might also be part of it.”

“I wasn’t smart enough to get myself out of this, though,” Mycroft admitted quietly. He had tried; god knew he tried, but nothing had really changed; he was still to report to the Capitol and receive his clients, just like everyone else. The only thing that had changed was –

“When do you start?” Dean asked, and Mycroft shook his head.

“I was able to buy myself a little time before I start.”

Dean straightened up at this news.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed, and he had planned to indulge him no further. Dean didn’t need to know how Mycroft had grovelled for time.

“Oh, don’t just leave me with that!” Dean exclaimed. “How’d you do it?” he asked, and Mycroft sighed.

“If I tell you, you must promise not to judge me too harshly; I am not proud of it.”

“Yes, okay, of course,” Dean promised.

“I may have ended up using Sherlock’s circumstances to gain two years,” Mycroft revealed quietly. “I told him that Sherlock needed a guardian, and he gave me until Sherlock turns twelve. I was aiming to start when Sherlock turned eighteen, but President Snow insisted I couldn’t have that long.”

“At least you got two years,” Dean noted, and Mycroft nodded in agreement.

“I’m lucky; I know I am. I didn’t even have to stoop as low as I was afraid I was going to have to –”

“What, your Will Graham theory?” Dean guessed, referring to the theory Mycroft had created after watching the Fiftieth Hunger Games, noticing that William Graham and someone Mycroft knew shared enough qualities to make Mycroft believe that they might have been autistic like William was. However, Mycroft did not mention to Dean that it was _Sherlock_ Mycroft had the theory about until months later after his Hunger Games victory.

Mycroft nodded again.

“I was prepared to use it, if I needed to,” Mycroft confirmed. “Just enough to explain that Sherlock needed me to watch over him.”

“If he was willing to offer you and Sherlock a place here, he might’ve just gotten him a diagnosis and kept you here no matter what it was,” Dean said quietly, and Mycroft bit the inside of his lip. He hadn’t considered that, but Dean was exactly right. President Snow could have gotten them to the Capitol with the promise that Sherlock would be given a diagnosis, and if Mycroft’s theory was proven wrong, President Snow could insist that Sherlock didn’t need someone to watch over him so closely after all; if Mycroft’s theory was correct, however, President Snow could force them to stay, since they were already there.

Either way, he would have trapped them there, either way, he would have gotten what he had wanted. Either way, he _was_ getting what he wanted. Mycroft may have been able to buy himself some time, but he was still the Capitol’s property, nonetheless, just like Dean and so many before them.

It wouldn’t stop with Mycroft, either, and he was more than aware of this; if Sherlock was reaped into the Hunger Games and somehow won, he would be doomed to the same fate. Not just Sherlock, but anyone that ever won the Hunger Games would be doomed to the same fate.

They gained fame and fortune and immunity from winning the Hunger Games, but they also became toys for the Capitol to play with for the rest of their lives; there was no true reward.

They survived the Hunger Games, they fought for their lives, they _killed_ people, for no reward.

They went through hell – _Mycroft_ went through _hell_ …for nothing.

And nobody was ever told that, no one had any idea, until _after_ they were told that they had won.

Mycroft grit his teeth, looking over the edge of the roof. He felt played, completely played by the entire world. They knew; they all knew, but they let each and every tribute believe that life after the Hunger Games was a life worth living.

“Mycroft?” Dean asked quietly, but Mycroft ignored him.

It was enough to kill a person; it was almost enough to kill _him_ , leaving Sherlock behind after fighting so hard to win the Hunger Games for him. His love for Sherlock had saved him in the Arena, it had saved him the night of his birthday, and it would save him again, tonight on this roof.

He had said it himself, last year, during his interview with Caesar Flickerman: _“I’ve found that love is also a vicious motivator.”_

Now it would be his most dangerous weapon.

Then an idea occurred to Mycroft; one that he had in the back of his mind every minute of his life, one that now stepped to the forefront, so much so that no choice but to finally voice it. Dean was the safest person to tell, and Mycroft knew that; he would be the last person to run and tell anyone of note, especially considering he bent the rules of the Hunger Games to mentor him last summer.

“We need to do something,” he said, determined; he knew exactly what he was saying, and the power that saying something like that could hold, if taken seriously.

Dean looked up at Mycroft, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Wait, what?” he asked, but they both knew he had heard exactly what Mycroft had said.

“We need to do something. Something to show President Snow and the Gamemakers that we are no longer going to take this laying down,” Mycroft said before grimacing at his choice of words.

“You’re not saying what I think you’re saying?” Dean asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“I believe I am.”

Dean stared at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment, until finally, his mouth moved, forming the words silently, as if someone could possibly overhear them.

“You’re not joking,” he said, but they both already knew it was true; Mycroft was not one to joke around, especially about this.

“I’m not,” Mycroft agreed all the same.

“Have you actually given thought to…?” Dean asked, evidently terrified of saying the word out loud.

“Not a lot of thought, but enough,” Mycroft admitted.

“But we don’t have – we don’t have _anything_ – we’re just a couple of victors –”

“We’d have to gather supporters, obviously, perhaps a few in some position of power, if we can,” Mycroft said, thinking aloud.

“And you think we could actually…?” Dean asked, and Mycroft was encouraged by the usage of ‘we.’

“I believe we could. I would need your help though. Not for much; I can do most of it. However, you know the Capitol better than I do –”

“Barely –” Dean argued, rolling his eyes.

“You know it enough; you can get my foot in any door that I might have difficulty getting through myself. All you have to do is point me in a direction; I’ll decide if they’re trustworthy and I’ll do the talking.”

“You’re leaving that to me? What if I’m wrong?”

“As I said, I can make a deduction as to how trustworthy they are. I’ll make the final decision.”

“But what if we slip up and make a mistake? What if we get caught?” Dean asked, his panic clearly rising.

“We won’t get caught –”

“Even talking about this is treason, Mycroft. They’ll turn us into Avoxes and kill our families –” Dean said, and Mycroft could see his eyes filling with tears.

“I’ll do the planning and the legwork; I’ll be the face of this,” Mycroft said calmly. “On the off chance that we get caught, you can tell them that you had no idea what you were doing, that I tricked you into helping; I won’t deny it and they’ll leave you and your family alone.”

“And then they’ll turn you into an Avox and kill Sherlock, and I _know_ you don’t want that.”

Mycroft grit his teeth, but it wasn’t at the idea of being an Avox. As much as he hated the idea of getting his ability to speak taken away from him and being forced to silently serve the Capitol for the rest of his life, it was the mention of his brother that angered him. They couldn’t kill him. They wouldn’t, because –

“We won’t get caught,” Mycroft assured him, and put his hand up when Dean opened his mouth to argue. “You know me; I don’t know how to be wrong. I know there’s so much at stake, including our own lives, but I will do everything in my power to keep the ones we love safe. Of course, you can choose not to help, and if you choose to help tonight you can always back out; I won’t blame you either way. However, if you choose not to help I only ask that you keep this conversation a secret.”

Dean, who had been fighting to avoid Mycroft’s eyes this whole time, finally looked up at him.

“You’re giving me a choice?” he asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“It’s more than President Snow’s ever given us,” he replied, and Dean sighed, putting his head in his hands.

The two sat in silence for a minute or so, Mycroft waiting patiently as Dean thought over his options, his head not moving from its place in his hands. Mycroft didn’t make a move to try to convince Dean further; it was all up to Dean, now.

“We’re just kids…” Dean finally mumbled.

“We were ‘just kids’ when President Snow forced us into the Arena. We’ve evolved,” Mycroft informed him, and Dean began to shake his head.

“Why? Why us?” he asked. “Why does it have to be us?”

“Because Sherlock hates the Capitol, and we’re both tired of them taking me away from him. Because he’s not safe from the Hunger Games. He’s not the only one who isn’t safe. This is so much bigger than us, Dean, but it can start with us, here, tonight. Wouldn’t you want to help create a free Panem?”

“Yes, but – why _me?”_ Dean asked, his tone miserable, and Mycroft set his jaw.

“Because the only other person in this world I can trust just turned ten years old last month,” he replied curtly, and Dean sighed as it seemed that the chaos in his head finally settled into place. “Will you help me?” he asked again, and Dean sighed once more.

“Yes, I’ll help you –”

“Thank you –“

“– _but,”_ Dean continued, cutting Mycroft off. “I’m not sure how far we’ll get. Yes, we’re victors, and you’ve probably noticed that gets you quite a bit in Twelve, but it’s different here. We’re still part of the Districts, and some of the people here – especially the older generation – aren’t exactly nice about it.”

“How so?” Mycroft asked.

“A lot of them still see us as the rebels from the Dark Days. Some of them see us as animals – less intelligent than the people of the Capitol – less human. I’ve heard some pretty awful things.”

“Then we’ll start small; we’ll start in the Districts themselves. Families of losing tributes that are angry at the injustice; any victors who know what we’re going through and will understand. Can you think of anyone like who I’ve just described?”

“Yeah – yeah, there’s a few victors. I don’t know about the families, though, at least in Four.”

“That’s fine; I suggest we stay out of the Career Districts for now, anyway, at least until I legitimately meet some of them and see what I can deduce. I can speak to Anthea McAlister’s family and see what they say, and maybe the families of the tributes from last year, as well. If we get some numbers there, we can move onto others, people who work closely with the tributes every year, perhaps? The ones that might be able to challenge the District stereotypes with what they’ve seen? Maybe we could speak to some of the Avoxes, as well?” Mycroft suggested, bouncing the idea off of Dean.

“Yeah, yeah that sounds good,” Dean agreed. “But what about the other Districts, outside of yours and mine? How do we get to their families?”

“Through the other victors,” Mycroft said. “If we can convince some of them to join us, we can ask them to talk to the other families for us.”

“And if they don’t?”

“We’ll find another way,” Mycroft decided. “We can’t visit people in the Districts, can we?”

Dean shook his head. “Not unless you sneak on the train, or you’re going to the Capitol for the Hunger Games or the victory tour, and that requires paperwork.”

“We can’t sneak on the trains, it’s too dangerous. Are there any other victors here, tonight?”

“From what I’ve seen it’s just me,” Dean replied with a shrug. “We may have to wait until summer to start this.”

“It’ll certainly give us time to plan out what exactly to say,” Mycroft supposed.

“And it’ll give _me_ time to make a list of people we could talk to,” Dean added. “But how far are we going to take this? Are we just starting a movement or are we trying to overthrow the Capitol?”

“I believe we have to take it up to President Snow. If we can solve it diplomatically, we will, but we both know what President Snow’s capable of,” Mycroft replied, and Dean nodded.

“If we overthrow him, who will take his place? We can’t just _not_ have a President, can we?”

Mycroft hadn’t exactly thought about this part specifically, but as he started speaking the solution occurred to him:

“I would, perhaps. It’s already been decided that I would be the face of this; anyone who joined us would know I had the leadership skills and the moral standards to use the power correctly,” he mused. “However, I wouldn’t do it alone. I would want someone from each District to represent their home, and maybe someone from the Capitol there, as well, to make it even.”

“We could use the victors,” Dean suggested. “They would know better than anyone what we’re trying to avoid.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Mycroft agreed. “You can represent District Four, if you’d like,” he offered, and Dean nodded.

“I think I’d like that – yes, I’ll represent Four.”

The two went back and forth like this, formulating a basic outline of a plan together, and the more they spoke of it, the more confident they became. Soon enough, they were tossing ideas around for a name.

“How about Mockingjay?” Mycroft asked, at one point. He had briefly considered naming it after the East Wind, considering that District 12 was in the east and the Capitol lied in the west, but that was too personal. If Sherlock ever heard Mycroft mention it by name he would instantly get himself involved, no matter what Mycroft did to deter him.

“Mockingjay?” Dean asked. He had brought up a few ideas, including “Operation Two Birds, One Snow” and “The 12-4 Alliance” but Mycroft boiled any too-obvious ideas to the fact that he might’ve had a couple of drinks.

“Yes; it was one of the Capitol’s biggest mistakes during the Dark Days, wasn’t it?” Mycroft asked, even though he already knew the answer. “Why not name their newest biggest mistake after their last one?”

“What’s their newest one?” Dean asked, and Mycroft smiled.

“Underestimating us,” he replied simply, and Dean chuckled, smiling for the first time since Mycroft had brought up the idea.

“I like that one,” he decided as his chuckles died down, and Mycroft checked his watch.

“We should get back to the banquet.”

“Shit, how long have we been up here?”

“Just an hour, but Mrs. Hudson will probably be looking to bring me home. I can just tell her that we kept missing each other if she says she was searching for me,” Mycroft decided. The banquet hall was large enough and crowded enough to easily get away with the lie. “We should probably make separate entrances back at the banquet though, just in case,” he decided, rising.

“Oh, I’m not planning on going back there,” Dean said, waving him off. “I was only here for you.”

Mycroft, who was already planning out his goodbye, his mind busy with plans of the rebellion, paused for a moment, touched by Dean’s words. Dean didn’t have to be there, but he went and filed the paperwork to leave and got on the train to the Capitol, just for him.

For the first time, Mycroft considered that, perhaps, maybe they _were_ friends.

“I appreciate that; thank you,” Mycroft said quietly, and Dean nodded.

“Of course,” he said, standing up from his seat, as well. “So, we’re doing this – we’re actually doing this?” he asked, as if to make sure, and Mycroft grinned.

“Yes, we’re doing this. Dean Bainbridge –” Mycroft said, putting his hand between them for Dean to shake. “– welcome to Project Mockingjay.”

Dean shook Mycroft’s hand, his smile matching Mycroft’s.

“Welcome indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> The Driver by Bastille (for the thought stepping to the forefront)  
> Achilles, Come Down by Gang of Youths (for love turning from a vicious motivator to a dangerous weapon)  
> (there's a BUNCH for Mycroft's general rage for the Capitol, including: I Will Not Bow by Breaking Benjamin, Chemical Fires by Tides of Man, Kissing Cousins by Closure in Moscow, Get Out The Way by Mother Mother, Severed by the Decemberists, Emperor's New Clothes by Panic! at the Disco, Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea by Fall Out Boy, and Cardboard Houses by Hrvrd)  
> Can't Do by Everything Everything (for Mycroft and Dean (mostly Dean) being called to do something)


	11. First.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games comes to pass; Mycroft tries to mentor his tributes; Mycroft and Dean start recruiting victors of the outlying districts to join Project Mockingjay; Mycroft meets the families of his tributes.

Six months after Mycroft’s victory tour, Mycroft again boarded the train to the Capitol, this time with two freshly-reaped tributes from District Twelve in his company.

Their names were Tilsee Polner and Holden Summbell, ages thirteen and fifteen, respectively, both of whom lived on the outskirts of the Seam. Mycroft had seen Holden a few times at school, but they had never spoken; Mycroft had never seen Tilsee before in his life, before now.

He remained emotionally reserved throughout the training, always keeping his tributes at arm’s length, knowing not to get attached. They made it easy to keep himself reserved, as well; they were both terrified, only speaking when spoken to, and showed no sign of determination to win. To them, to both of them, the Hunger Games was not a game they could possibly win, despite a winner of said game standing before them. However, thinking realistically, they were right; being from the Seam, they were both malnourished (much like he and Sherlock were, this time last year), which made them smaller and weaker than the other tributes in the Arena through only the fault of their circumstances.

Still, Mycroft helped them the best he could, giving them advice and talking them through potential strategies, but none of it seemed to resound anything within either of them; even their interviews with Caesar Flickerman lacked any sort of luster.

“They’re making you look like a shitty mentor,” Dean had muttered at one point as they sat next to each other in the mentor’s section of the audience.

“They’re terrified,” Mycroft replied, defensive. “What am I meant to do?” he asked, and Dean shrugged.

“I’m just saying it might hurt us,” he breathed into Mycroft’s ear, ensuring that no one could possibly hear them, and Mycroft could see his point. Mycroft had already proved that he was an intelligent tribute, but his terrified, ill-prepared tributes might show a testimony to Mycroft’s leadership skills before he even had the chance to open his mouth.

“It’s my first year and I’m alone; they’ll understand,” Mycroft shot back, and Dean nodded.

“Rooftop tonight?” he asked, and Mycroft nodded subtly. “Midnight?” he asked, and Mycroft repeated the action. They hadn’t gotten to really speak since they arrived at the Capitol, with both of them focusing on their own tributes, but, with the Hunger Games itself starting tomorrow, they needed to speak privately. They needed to go over how tomorrow would go, and the only place they could do that safely was on the training center’s rooftop.

Three hours later, when they were up on the rooftop, Dean laid everything out exactly for Mycroft: tomorrow was going to be some of the most organized chaos that Mycroft would ever see in his life. The Hunger Games Headquarters’ Ballroom would be crawling with the most elite of Capitol citizens, people who would be dying to latch onto any sort of juicy gossip (and rebellion was probably one of the juiciest pieces of gossip they could possibly hear). Mycroft had seen footage of mentors in the Hunger Games Headquarters reacting to and speaking for their tributes as they traversed the Arena, so Mycroft wasn’t surprised when Dean told him that he was probably going to be recorded for as long as both of his tributes were alive. Yes, the mentors had a semi-private, roped-off section of the room they could escape the other guests to, but the cameras could follow them into the mentor’s section to pester them about their tribute at any time. Private conversation was unheard of in the Hunger Games Headquarters, but especially before both of each mentor’s tributes died in the Arena.

“We probably won’t get to the victor’s District, just because the cameras will be on them throughout the whole Games,” Dean had mentioned, and Mycroft waved the thought away.

“We weren’t planning on speaking to the Career Districts this year, anyway.”

“Outlying Districts win, sometimes,” Dean reminded him, shooting him a significant look.

“Twelve isn’t going to win again,” he informed him.

“Which is probably good for us, seeing as I _am_ from a Career District, so I’ll probably be watched until almost the end, if not the very end. Speaking of,” Dean went on, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and passing it to Mycroft. “I’ve compiled a list of people you should talk to, like you asked.”

Mycroft took the list from Dean, reading it over and memorizing the names, then took a lighter out of his own pocket and burned it, completely destroying any evidence that it existed.

“Are you nervous?” Dean asked as the two watched the paper burn.

“Not enough to stop,” Mycroft replied quietly. “Are _you_ having second thoughts?”

“I’m just worried something will go wrong. That this will end up killing us,” Dean muttered, and Mycroft waited for him to meet his eyes.

“Dean, trust me,” he said simply, once Dean finally looked up. “I won’t talk to anyone that I don’t think would keep the secret.”

“I trust you, I just...” Dean trailed off, but Mycroft understood.

“Tomorrow’s coming quickly,” he supplied, and Dean looked up at him again.

“Tomorrow’s already here.”

“So it is,” Mycroft agreed. “We should get some sleep, rest for tomorrow,” he suggested, but they stayed up on the rooftop just a bit longer, sitting in silence, taking in the calm before the storm before they couldn’t take it in at all. Tomorrow, everything would change, and they both knew it well. Dean was the first to get up and bid Mycroft goodnight, but Mycroft stayed up a little longer, his mind busy with all the ways the plans could go wrong, until he realized the sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon, and then he too finally went to bed.

As Mycroft had suspected, District 12 did not win the Sixty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games; in fact, neither of his tributes made it past the Bloodbath. Holden was killed traditionally, with an axe to the back thrown by a member of District 7 during the chaos that the beginning of the Hunger Games always caused, but Tilsee’s death was far more tragic.

It was common knowledge that the ground surrounding each individual platform contained mines, live until the moment the gong sounded to start the Hunger Games each year. The presence of the mines ensured that there would be no cheating and no head starts to the Cornucopia; if anyone stepped off their plate, their chances of winning the Hunger Games would instantly be blown to bits, just like the tribute themselves. Over the forty-seven years (by Mycroft’s count) that the mines had been a part of the Hunger Games, it had obviously lost its shine, going from a new component of the Hunger Games to a simple fact of the Hunger Games; there were even some years in which Mycroft forgot that the mines even existed.

Of course, the first year the mines were installed resulted in one of the older, more brutish tributes testing to see if what the Gamemakers had told them was actually true, but after that the amount of times the mines were triggered by a tribute were few and far between. Every decade or so (give or take a few years), some tribute would be stupid enough (or, in some cases, brave enough) to set off the mines again. Sometimes it was an accident, a nervous tribute miscalculating when the gong would sound; sometimes it was a suicide, a tribute who would rather die in an instant instead of starve or bleed to death; a couple of times a tribute would think that, if they stepped lightly or carefully enough or in just the right place, they would outsmart the mines just enough to get the head start they desired; and once, just once, the most recent time the mines were triggered, the tribute was convinced beyond any and all doubt that the Gamemakers simply didn’t install the mines that year.

No matter what the reason was, it didn’t matter. They all earned the same fate.

This year’s Hunger Games started just as all of those years had: with an explosion and an instantaneous death before the gong even sounded. The tribute, a boy from District 6, tried to make it seem like he had simply misjudged and stepped off the platform too early, but Mycroft knew that it was, in fact, a suicide. Unfortunately, though, one of the tributes on the platform next to him was Tilsee Polner; young, small, weak Tilsee Polner. The impact of the explosion next to her was enough to send her off her platform, setting off her mines before she could fully hit the ground.

The gong sounded a second later, and Holden Summbell, obviously shaken by the sudden loss of Tilsee, was one of the first tributes killed in the Bloodbath, and soon enough Mycroft was giving statements about both of them to the nearest cameras. Once he gave the statements (trying to avoid saying anything about how he actually felt about them, that they were kids and they were scared), Mycroft was free to roam around on his own throughout the ballroom of the Hunger Games Headquarters.

The first district to lose both of their tributes to the Hunger Games (besides Mycroft’s) was District 6, and for a moment Mycroft considered starting with them, using the deaths of their tribute and Tilsee’s to bond them together, seeing as Dean had put both of their names on the list of people he trusted. However, just as Mycroft was about to approach them, he realized that something about them seemed…off. It wasn’t that they seemed untrustworthy; if they did, Mycroft would’ve written them off immediately. The thing that threw Mycroft off almost completely was the fact that they seemed as if they were already inebriated, despite the fact that neither them touched the various alcoholic beverages that were offered to all of the guests of the Hunger Games watch party (even Mycroft found himself holding a glass).

This was one of the first things he brought up to Dean that night, after a long first day of the Hunger Games:

“So, how’d you do?” Dean asked as he met Mycroft on the roof. “I have to say, you handled your tribute deaths particularly well.”

“Do people normally not handle them well?” Mycroft asked, and Dean shrugged.

“There are some years some mentors get attached to their tributes but it’s not recommended, for obvious reasons.”

“Did you seriously expect me to get attached?” Mycroft asked. “Honestly? Mycroft ‘The Ice Man’ Holmes, getting attached?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Dean said, chuckling. “Seriously though, how did things go?”

“Well, I did talk to District Eleven and they’re both on board, –” Mycroft started.

“That’s great –”

“– however,” Mycroft continued, putting his finger up to silence Dean for the moment, “Are you completely positive District Six is trustworthy?”

“Yeah, of course – I wouldn’t give you their names if I didn’t. Why?” Dean asked.

“They didn’t…seem right to me. Not untrustworthy, but that…” It was like they were thinking too much and not enough simultaneously, but even the thought of it sounded stupid, to him. “It’s difficult to explain what I saw,” he admitted, looking up at Dean to find that he was already opening his mouth.

“I know what it is,” he announced. “I’m sorry; I should’ve warned you, before. The mentors of District Six – most of them, at least – are high on morphling.”

“‘Morphling,’” Mycroft repeated, the name sounding familiar, his mind trying to place where he had seen it last. “I have some at home, don’t I?” he asked, realizing, and Dean nodded.

“You do, and so do I. Morphling’s a pain killer, and all of the victors get sent home with a decent amount of it for whatever injuries they received over the course of their Games. The Capitol also gives some to the doctors of each district, but not a lot. It’s really addictive, so some of the victors that take it end up getting addicted, but most of the victors who get addicted are from –”

“District Six,” Mycroft guessed, and Dean nodded. “Do you really believe they would join Project Mockingjay? They’re addicted to a drug only the Capitol can give them.”

“And that’s what keeps _them_ under the Capitol’s thumb. I think they’d wanna get out, just like we do. Right?” Dean asked, and Mycroft pursed his lips.

“If I were to speak to them, would they even remember?” Mycroft asked. “I watched them when the paparazzi swarmed them about their tributes; their reaction times were slow, they were unfocused, and they seemed barely aware of what was happening around them. They may not retain it and if they do, they may have a lapse of judgement and tell the wrong people. Not to mention the fact that, if they _do_ tell the wrong people, the Capitol can easily bribe them into leading them straight to us, and they wouldn’t even think twice because they would feel like they needed the drug more than they needed to keep the secret,” he went on, and Dean took a moment to think about it.

“No, you’re right,” he quietly agreed. “I didn’t think of that.”

However, Mycroft hadn’t thought of Dean’s point of view, either. The Capitol gave the victors the drugs that they relied upon; it wasn’t necessarily the victors’ fault that they formed an addiction. They probably felt trapped, just as Mycroft did six months ago, and so they turned to the morphling to numb themselves to their prison, not realizing they were further trapping themselves. Did Mycroft really have the authority to refuse them a real, _true_ chance at escape, if they wanted it? Was it enough to just do it for them, or would they actually want to help? What gave Mycroft the right to decide their role, when they were just the same as him?

But he couldn’t put all of Project Mockingjay at risk; he wouldn’t. He needed to do some research.

“…I’ll think about District Six,” Mycroft decided, and Dean looked up. “I’ll talk to District Six, get to know them, and deduce how the secret of Project Mockingjay might be affected by the influence of the drugs. It may take me a bit of time to get the deduction right, seeing as I’ve never witnessed an addiction like this first-hand, but I will consider District Six. For now, though, we should focus on who we _can_ definitively get on our side. We start again tomorrow.”

“We start again tomorrow,” Dean repeated, and the two went their separate ways, both preparing themselves for day two of the Hunger Games.

* * *

Over the course of the Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games, Mycroft (joined by Dean two days later, after losing both of his tributes more than halfway through the year’s Hunger Games) made his way through nearly everyone on the list Dean gave him, pulling each mentor one by one after the cameras had finally left them alone to speak to them about the idea of a rebellion. Mycroft gave each of them the same deal that he had given Dean: they could back out if they wished to, but they needed to promise not to speak of the conversation. Luckily, nearly everyone they had spoken to decided to join Project Mockingjay, and anyone who didn’t at least swore themselves to secrecy, which was enough for Mycroft. As soon as they gained a mentor, Mycroft gave them a script of what to say to the other victors from their District, and to the families of the past fallen tributes, and requested that they find their way to the Capitol for the Victory Banquet in the winter to report how many people they had gotten to join.

The only districts that they could not reach before the end of that year’s Hunger Games (besides District Six) were Districts Two and Ten. Not being able to touch Two was fine, considering that they weren’t planning on speaking to the Career Districts until they gained more numbers, but Dean had put both District Ten mentors on the list, so not being able to speak to either of them slightly bothered Mycroft, until District Ten’s tribute won the Hunger Games.

The District Ten tribute, a fifteen-year-old girl by the name of Clover Frankland, happened to be standing on the other side of the District Six tribute that killed himself by stepping from his platform too early, deafening her instantly. Clover never heard the gong that signified the start of the Hunger Games. She never heard any cannons blasting, signifying the deaths that took place. She never heard the anthem that played each and every night in the Arena. She never heard her fellow tributes. She never heard District Two’s tribute sneak up on her during the final two, and she never even heard the trumpets when she had won. A day after Clover’s victory, it was revealed that the Capitol’s medical technology, as advanced as it was, could not save her hearing.

The girl’s story was tragic, and a complete and utter miracle, and just by watching her on the screen Mycroft knew that he had to get her into the rebellion. The Hunger Games had taken her hearing, giving her reason enough to hate the Capitol, and reason enough to join Project Mockingjay.

However, recruiting Clover Frankland would have to wait until winter; for now, Mycroft had only four people he could possibly recruit: Holden and Tilsee’s parents.

The first thing he did once he arrived home in District Twelve was, of course, reunite with Sherlock and thank the Watson family profusely for taking him in again. The day after he returned though, he found his way to the Seam, to the homes of Holden Summbell and Tilsee Polner.

Speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Summbell was an in-and-out operation that Mycroft wasn’t expecting. Once his parents recovered from the fact that their deceased son’s mentor was on their doorstep and in their house, they seemed open to the idea of rebelling against the Capitol in revenge for killing their only son. In fact, the more that Mycroft said, the more excited his father specifically seemed, and Mycroft couldn’t blame him.

Mr. Summbell worked in the mines like Mycroft’s father had; having no choice but to wait to die, either from a mining accident or from black lung after inhaling coal dust for too long. Even without being involved in the Hunger Games, the odds were stacked against him; his life wasn’t at all a joyous one, even before the Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games. When those Hunger Games came to pass, though, it took his son with it, leaving him and his wife alone to continue their existence, waiting to die. When Mycroft mentioned the idea of a rebellion, however, the man smiled in what seemed like the first time in _years._

The second he smiled, Mycroft knew he had two more people to join him.

Speaking to Tilsee Polner’s parents, however, just like the death of Tilsee herself, was more complicated.

When Mr. Polner answered the door and found Mycroft on their doorstep, he recognized him immediately and let him inside their small, two-bedroom house. The first person Mycroft noticed was Tilsee’s mother, who instantly stood from the kitchen table to greet him, but then Mycroft noticed the two little girls who were playing at the table.

Both of them were spitting images of Tilsee, as if Mycroft was looking at Tilsee herself from different points in her life; the first one about Sherlock’s age, and the second about four years old.

Once Mrs. Polner introduced herself, she turned her attention to her surviving daughters, who had also stood from the table to line themselves up next to their mother.

“Taliah, Tia, this is Mr. Holmes,” she said, placing her hand on each of their heads as she said their names.

Before Mycroft could open his mouth to introduce himself, though, the younger girl – Tia – spoke, instead:

“Where’s Tilsee?” she asked, squinting up at Mycroft. She was young, too young to understand what had truly happened to her sister (just as Sherlock had been too young when their father died in the mines), but that didn’t stop her from realizing that Mycroft was one of the last people Tilsee was seen with, up on the stage of the Justice Building, right after she was reaped.

Hating to see the confusion in her eyes, Mycroft kneeled down before her, getting to her level before he broke the news as gently as he could.

“I am so sorry, Tia…I couldn’t bring her home,” he said quietly, and could only watch as her eyes filled with tears.

There was a long moment of silence between the five people in the house, until –

“I HATE YOU!”

The words exploded out of Taliah, bouncing off of the walls around them, shocking her family and nearly startling Mycroft. He looked up at Taliah just long enough to see her race to the room she obviously shared with Tia and Tilsee when she was alive, slamming the door behind her.

As they could hear Taliah cry from the other side of the door, Mycroft slowly stood up, and found himself meeting her mother’s eyes.

“…I suppose I deserve that,” he said quietly, and she smiled sadly in return.

“They were really close,” she replied, just as quietly. “Attached at the hip since Taliah was born,” she went on, and Mycroft found himself returning her smile.

“How old is she?” he asked, although he had already deduced it. “Nine, correct?”

“Yeah,” her father answered for his wife. “Yeah, she’s nine.”

And for a second, he saw Sherlock in the girl; the nine-year-old sibling that had loved their older sibling so much, until the Hunger Games stole them from them forever. Sherlock and Mycroft were lucky enough for Mycroft to return, although he was forever changed by the experience. However, Taliah was living the reality Sherlock would have lived if Mycroft had died last year; angry at the unfairness of life, blaming everyone around them for the cruelty of the world, a piece of their heart forever missing.

A part of him wanted to speak to her, to tell her that she would survive this, but he knew that he was the last person she would ever want to speak to about her loss.

“Did either of them see…?” he started to ask. He knew that Tia hadn’t just by looking at her, but he hadn’t gotten enough of a read on Taliah before she ran into her room. Thankfully, both of Tilsee’s parents swooped in quickly, assuring Mycroft that neither of them had seen Tilsee’s death played out on screen.

“Good, that’s good,” Mycroft replied, glad that neither girl had witnessed what no sibling should ever have to see. “Actually, do you think we could speak for a moment in private?”

And so, once Mr. and Mrs. Polner were able to console Taliah enough to convince her to go outside with Tia, Mycroft sat with them in the house, and told them what he wanted to do. That he wanted to help children like Tilsee and Holden, and like Taliah and Tia, too. That he wanted to help the past victors and the civilians within the Districts. That he wanted to help everyone, but he needed as much help as he could get.

He also explained this to Clover Frankland over the winter, back at the Capitol during the Victory Banquet. Unable to vocally explain and too wary of watchful eyes to write it down, he traced the word “rebellion” onto the palm of her hand until her eyes lit up at the thought of it. She, having just gotten the news of her fate like Mycroft had the year previous, latched onto the idea instantly, smiling for the first time that night. It was there, in a voice that was now accented by her inability to hear herself (a voice in which Mycroft deduced she hated using), she agreed to help, and it was there that, following in Dean’s footsteps, Mycroft asked her to write to him if she ever needed to talk to someone about life after the Hunger Games.

After speaking to Clover, multiple mentors (who had all found their way to the Capitol for the Victory Banquet, just as Mycroft requested) came to Mycroft and Dean to report that they had spoken to the other victors and their families. Together they learned that by the end of that winter alone they had one hundred people on their side, Tilsee’s family and Clover Frankland included.

Mycroft allowed himself to feel victorious for only a night, knowing he had a more difficult task at hand the following summer: recruiting the Careers.


	12. Power.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft recognizes one of the newest tributes; Mycroft and Dean begin recruiting the Career Mentors; Mycroft makes a decision to protect Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to what is currently the LONGEST CHAPTER IN HUNGERLOCK HISTORY, FOR SOME REASON.  
> I keep track of the amount of pages in Microsoft Word each chapter takes up (because I'm weird like that), and both Sentiment and Constantly both average at about 6 pages per chapter but they've obviously gone higher (Sentiment's gone up to 8 pages in 5 different chapters, Constantly's gone up to 10 pages in 3 different chapters). But THIS CHAPTER SPECIFICALLY IS TWELVE PAGES LONG. AND I'M NOT SURE WHY THAT IS. (Before this chapter, chapters 6 and 7 were both tied for the longest chapters at 9 pages.)  
> There was a lot of ground to cover in this chapter (obviously) and I ended up cutting a bunch out but I hope you still enjoy it!!

The Sixty-Eighth Annual Hunger Games came quickly upon Mycroft that year, and soon enough he was saying goodbye to Sherlock again, passing him over to the Watson’s before meeting the newly-reaped District 12 tributes and making any deductions of them that he could as they rode the train to the Capitol.

The girl, fifteen-year-old Taylor Holbrook, was nothing remarkable. She was nice enough, which Mycroft could have possibly worked with if she was younger, but as it was he couldn’t do much with it. The only way he could possibly do anything with it now was if she used that kindness to lull her opponents into a false sense of security before revealing her ability to kill, though Mycroft highly doubted she had the capacity to do that. Unfortunately, she, like Tilsee Polner and Holden Summbell before her, would probably end up getting murdered during the Bloodbath.

The male District 12 tribute, however…

Mycroft may not have thought anything of him, just as he didn’t think much of Taylor, if it wasn’t for Mycroft’s ability to see Sherlock during the reaping ceremony.

In the beginning of the reaping ceremony, Mycroft glanced out into the crowd of onlookers and realized he could see Sherlock, standing with the Watson’s as if he was part of their family. He quickly found himself keeping an eye on Sherlock throughout, which bared no importance besides giving Mycroft a few more minutes to watch over his brother, until Kaden Chase was called to the stage.

As soon as Kaden’s name was called, Mycroft instantly recognized the name; years ago, before Mycroft won the Hunger Games and chose to stop attending school, Kaden and Mycroft had been classmates. However, it seemed as if Sherlock also recognized Kaden’s name.

Throughout the ceremony, Mycroft had watched Sherlock, bored and relaxed as he made his own deductions and gave his commentary to John Watson as he stood beside him. The second Kaden’s name was called, though, Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed. Suddenly, the boy stood up straight at attention, eyes glancing between Kaden as he moved through the crowd and Mycroft on the stage. He was tense, but also relieved, as if the boy could count on the fact that Kaden wasn’t returning to District 12.

Before Kaden even touched the stage, Mycroft made the deduction: Sherlock knew Kaden Chase, and it was not for a good reason.

The revelation completely threw Mycroft off of the schedule he had been trying to make for himself as a Hunger Games mentor. He spent barely any of the train ride paying any attention to Taylor, instead focusing all of his deduction skills on Kaden, and though he could deduce everything about him from his alcoholic father to how long it had been since he last brushed his teeth, he couldn’t deduce where exactly he fit in Sherlock’s long list of harassers, or what he had done to put himself there.

He was still pondering this the night they arrived in the Capitol, up on the roof with Dean after the opening ceremony, even as Dean reported that he was able to recruit District 4’s victors on his own and as they went over their plans for recruiting the mentors of Districts 1 and 2.

“Mycroft?” Dean asked at one point, and Mycroft looked up, meeting his eyes. “You seem off, what’s going on?”

“I just have a lot on my mind; it’s alright,” Mycroft replied, waving him off. “Remind me, who are the Career mentors, this year?”

“Well, there’s James Hewlett and Opal Hayes from District One, they’re alright, and there’s Orion Wright from Two and…I don’t know if we want to talk to Antonia, this year…”

“Antonia,” Mycroft repeated. He knew that name, and not just from watching all of the Hunger Games recaps. “Which Hunger Games did she win?”

“Antonia Blake? I think she won the Sixty…First Games? Why?”

Ah, right. That was where he knew her from: Antonia Blake was the victor of the Hunger Games that occurred not even a month after the unpredictable death of his father.

Mycroft never made a habit of relating victors of the Hunger Games to the events of his personal life (for instance, he didn’t assign the victor of the Fifty-Seventh Hunger Games to Sherlock’s birth simply because they had gone on their Victory Tour a month after his birth, and he didn’t think of himself as the victor of the Hunger Games in which his mother died even though his reaping directly correlated with her death). However, for whatever reason, he was unable to disconnect Antonia Blake from his father’s death. He even had a difficult time watching the recap in which Antonia won the Hunger Games when he himself was in the Hunger Games two years ago.

And even though he knew that Antonia Blake had nothing to do with the death of his father, the thought of meeting her filled him with dread.

“Why wouldn’t we want to talk to Antonia?” Mycroft asked, despite himself, changing the subject.

“You remember how she won?” Dean asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. Now that he knew where he recognized her name from, he remembered her time in the Arena pretty vividly. The six Career tributes had teamed up and had effectively killed everyone in the Arena besides themselves, which led to the six tributes being forced to turn against each other. Somewhere during the course of the Hunger Games, the other five Careers decided that Antonia was the weakest of their group, so when the time came to break the alliance, the remaining five tributes instantly ganged up on Antonia. Antonia, however, showed everyone, killing each and every one of them and winning the Sixty-First Hunger Games.

“I guess it really fucked her up,” Dean explained, and Mycroft couldn’t blame her for that. “I heard she didn’t even speak until the Victory Tour after she won. Her interview with Caesar Flickerman after her Games was a nightmare, do you remember that?” Mycroft did vaguely remember the extremely awkward final interview, where Caesar Flickerman tried desperately to make conversation to her, but was only met with her watchful eyes in return. He had never seen anything like it before, and hadn’t seen anything like it since; even Clover Frankland, who couldn’t hear Caesar Flickerman’s questions without having someone write it out for her _or_ her own responses, tried to give the best interview she could. “I guess she still shuts everyone out like that, from time to time, and she’s generally just really rude and angry most of the time, anyway. I don’t feel like she’s untrustworthy but I feel like she’d be a rogue element in all this.”

Mycroft nodded, thankful for the excuse to not approach her, but he still felt as if he shouldn’t completely write her off. They needed all the Careers they could get, and if her Hunger Games traumatized her as much as Dean insisted it did, that could possibly give them an angle to use to convince her to join.

“I’ll see what I can deduce on her,” he decided. “Until then, what do you suggest I say to the other Careers?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, eyeing Mycroft carefully.

“You know how to speak to the Careers; you’re one, yourself. What should I say to them?” Mycroft elaborated, and Dean shrugged.

“Tell ‘em what you told me,” he said, as if it was obvious, but Mycroft shook his head at his words.

“That won’t work,” he said quickly, immediately dismissing his idea.

“Why not?”

“You were different,” Mycroft replied instantly, before he could stop himself.

“‘Different’?” Dean repeated. “You just said yourself that I’m a Career, too. What makes me so different from them?”

“Because you took a chance on me and Anthea,” Mycroft replied. “You risked your life for us. You risked your life for _me._ None of them would do the same.”

At this, Dean shrugged.

“You’re right; some of them wouldn’t. Hannibal Lecter Magnussen would’ve probably loved to see you struggle it out on your own, for instance. But not all of the Careers are like Hannibal. You might be surprised by who’s willing to stand on our side.”

* * *

As Mycroft had suspected, Taylor Holbrook didn’t make it past the Bloodbath. However, Kaden Chase made it to the final three (surprising absolutely everyone), which kept Mycroft more or less bound to the mentor’s section of the Hunger Games Headquarters’ Ballroom. This was a perfect turn of events, considering that the Career mentors also tended to be bound to the mentor’s section, as well. Dean took the opportunity to introduce Mycroft to not only the other mentor of District Four, but the other mentors of the Career tributes. Of course, both Dean and Mycroft knew exactly what Mycroft was doing during these introductions and bouts of small talk: Mycroft was silently deducing everything he could about each of the mentors, trying to make a decision as to whether or not he could ask them to join Project Mockingjay.

From what Mycroft could deduce, James Hewlett from District One was trustworthy, but getting him to help would be something of a fifty-fifty chance. The man was eighteen when he had won the Fifty-First Hunger Games and was now thirty-five years old; he had long since accepted that this is the way that the world worked, and he had no reason to think that the Capitol should ever change what it was doing. He had gotten used to the victor’s lifestyle in District 1 and enjoyed the quietness of it; he wouldn’t want to disrupt his life to gather proof and tattle on the lowly District 12 boy with the crackpot plan to overthrow the Capitol. However, he probably wouldn’t want to disrupt his privileged life to help, either. He would certainly take some convincing to join if he could stand to listen, but it could go either way, as far as Mycroft could tell.

Opal Hayes was certainly an interesting character. The twenty-four-year-old woman had won the Sixtieth Hunger Games and was now a model for the Capitol. When he heard this information from Dean, he immediately expected to not be able to even introduce the idea to her; she was probably in love with her new life and the fame that came with it, considering that it was all still relatively new to her. Not to mention the fact that, if the fame went straight to her head, she would be too self-centered to even consider helping and would immediately try to spill the secret in order to keep her life the way it was. However, upon meeting her, she seemed very down to earth; in fact, she greeted Mycroft with a hug and knew his name before Dean even uttered it. Despite her bubbly personality, though, Mycroft still wasn’t sure if she could be trusted with Project Mockingjay, but there were two things that he noticed while talking to her that quickly changed his mind. First off, there was the subject of her right eye. During her Hunger Games, she was shot in the eye with an arrow (a shot that miraculously missed her brain completely), and she made the life-saving choice of pulling the arrow from it. Obviously, her eye could not be saved, but Opal made an interesting choice: instead of using a regular glass eye, Opal chose to design and use precious white opal as her false eye. The result was beautiful, and even turned into her staple in the fashion world, seeing as no one could possibly replicate it without removing their own eye. Of course, the loss of her eye resulted in good fortune for her, which didn’t exactly give Mycroft an angle, but something else did: while the three were talking, Dean (who had known her for about three years) placed his hand on her shoulder, causing Opal to flinch, almost as if she was subconsciously trying to shake him off before catching herself. Of course, she was a model for the Capitol; any Capitol man would pay a fortune just to touch her for an instant. Yes, he would definitely talk to her, and that would be his angle: if they won against the Capitol, her contract to the Capitol would instantly be burned. It would work perfectly.

The youngest of the Career mentors (besides Dean) was Orion Wright from District Two. He had won the Sixty-Third Hunger Games at the age of seventeen, and was still very prideful of that fact even now, five years later. He definitely believed that he, and all of the victors, had to be the best of the best to win the Hunger Games, just like Dean once thought. He even enjoyed mentoring, wearing the mentor’s sash and the communicuff with a sense of pride that made Mycroft not want to speak to him about Project Mockingjay. He believed in the Hunger Games and the Career mentality like a religion; if Mycroft did decide to speak to him, it would take an enormous amount of convincing just to get him to keep the secret, let alone join. If Mycroft tried to challenge his ideas and show him that they were all merely pieces in the Hunger Games, he would certainly trigger an identity crisis that could end badly, making it too much of a gamble to even try.

Antonia Blake from District Two was everything Dean said she would be. She was almost completely closed off, speaking only when she was spoken to, and in one-word responses, and seemed eager to end the conversation as soon as possible; the only time she really spoke was when there was a camera in front of her. She looked at everyone with a sense of rage that suggested that everyone in the room had personally gone out of their way to ruin her life, and at times she looked like she was seconds away from screaming at the next person who made eye contact with her. It was also obvious that the large crowds of the party going on around them made her extremely nervous, which was completely understandable considering she was almost killed by five people, though she tried to act as if it didn’t bother her at all. Seven years had passed since she had been in the Hunger Games Arena and she was still as shaken and angry as she was the day she left, which made her the perfect person to join Project Mockingjay. The only thing that could possibly deter her from the idea would be the fact that she would have to be a little more communicative, at least to Mycroft; though, just like with Clover Frankland, who had a hard time vocally communicating because she was deaf, there were ways around that.

As far as Mycroft was concerned, three out of the four Career mentors could be trusted with the secret of Project Mockingjay. However, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to speak to any of them until four days into the Hunger Games, when Kaden Chase killed the male District 1 tribute.

It was a pretty even fight, especially once the District 1 tribute managed to disarm Kaden, but then Kaden pinned the tribute up against a tree, wrapping his hands around his throat –

And there it was. The final piece of the deduction that Mycroft needed; the piece he wasn’t aware that he had because it was triggered by a memory, the memory of Sherlock in the Watson family’s kitchen the day of Mycroft’s seventeenth birthday –

Lip split –

Eye swollen shut –

Purple fingerprints around his neck.

For months after the incident, Mycroft had tried to convince, persuade, bribe, beg, and plead Sherlock to tell Mycroft who had hurt him that way, but for one reason or another Sherlock refused. He did this from time to time, choosing to protect a bully’s identity if Mycroft asked, even though all Mycroft wanted to do was stand up to the bullies for his brother. But now, after years of Sherlock keeping the identity of the boy who performed what Mycroft considered to be the worst offense against Sherlock a secret, Mycroft was confident that he figured it out through sheer luck alone.

The only way he could possibly confirm his deduction was if he could see the now-dead body of the District 1 tribute in person. He still remembered what the marks looked like on his brother’s neck (he couldn’t possibly forget); surely they would look the same on this tribute, if they were made by the same person. Fortunately, there was a way Mycroft could, potentially, get the proof he needed.

Whenever a tribute died in the Arena, one of the responsibilities as mentors was to oversee the dead bodies of their tributes as they returned to the Capitol before they were sent back to their district. This was one of the responsibilities that Mycroft didn’t really understand (and therefore _hated)_ , considering that he had already given the Capitol all the information they needed concerning where and who to deliver the body to, so he figured that the only reason why a mentor needed to be present was to serve as a reminder of the fate that easily could have befallen them. Most mentor teams had the luxury of splitting the responsibility (one would go down to the morgue under the Hunger Games Headquarters and see the body off and the other would stay and speak to the paparazzi about the death of the tribute), but Mycroft unfortunately had to take care of both responsibilities. Now that the District 1 tribute was deceased, one of the mentors would excuse themselves to the morgue…

Mycroft scanned the crowd around him, looking for either of the District 1 mentors, until he found them; from what he could tell, they had just decided that Opal would make her way to the morgue while James spoke to the paparazzi.

“A moment –” Mycroft said, stepping away from Dean to follow after Opal, but Dean grabbed his arm.

“Mycroft – Mycroft, this isn’t the time –” Dean started, but Mycroft shook him off, waving him away.

“Trust me,” he murmured, and Dean let him go.

Opal was nearly at the door to the ballroom before Mycroft finally caught up with her.

“Opal, Opal!” he called, and she turned around, a smile growing at the sound of her name.

“Mycroft! Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

“Actually, I think you can. I know this is unorthodox, and I apologize for needing to ask, but I was wondering if I could also see your tribute.”

Opal considered his request for only a moment before nodding.

“I don’t see why not. Come, walk with me,” she said, and allowed Mycroft to open the door for her.

“It’s not often a tribute from Twelve gets one of my tributes; you trained him well,” Opal noted as they went into the elevator.

“I don’t believe I had anything to do with it,” Mycroft mused quietly.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you inspired him in one way or another,” Opal assured him, but Mycroft only took her kind words with a grain of salt. If Mycroft had truly inspired him to kill someone this way, not only that but leave the same marks on _his brother,_ Mycroft didn’t want to know.

When the elevators opened into the morgue, Mycroft and Opal took their places in the viewing room (which was simply just a small room with a Plexiglas window to view into the morgue itself). It was there that Opal asked the question Mycroft was expecting her to ask all along:

“It’s always so awful in here, I can’t imagine wanting to be here more than I absolutely had to,” she mused at first, and Mycroft tried to ignore the purpose in her statement as he stepped closer to the glass, closer to the body on the other side, watching as one of the Hunger Games pathologists began the autopsy. He always hated watching the autopsies, for he never could avoid seeing himself in the tribute’s place, but he only needed to watch it for a moment, just long enough to get a good view at the tribute’s neck – “Why _did_ you ask to accompany me, anyway?” Opal finally asked, breaking his thoughts.

“I just need to see something,” Mycroft muttered in reply, not looking away from the body on the table.

At that moment, another pathologist entered the room.

“Hello, Miss Hayes – and Mr. Holmes. What are you doing here, exactly?” he asked, and before Mycroft could open his mouth, Opal quickly replied.

“Moral support,” she lied. “I’ve been quite under the weather this week; I couldn’t possibly stand to come down here alone, this year. If I did, you would probably need to hold my hair back, if you can catch my drift.”

As she spoke, the pathologist in the other room stepped away from the tribute’s head to start to retrieve the tracker from their arm, giving Mycroft a full view of his neck. Finally, Mycroft could see for sure that the finger-shaped bruises on the tributes throat matched the ones that had been on Sherlock’s neck exactly –

Mycroft finally had the definitive proof he needed. Kaden Chase had been the bully that had left bruises on Sherlock’s throat on Mycroft’s birthday.

And now, nearly two years later, Kaden was now in the Hunger Games Arena –

“When he heard I wasn’t feeling well, Mycroft here volunteered to join me; he really is a doll. Aren’t you, Mycroft?” Opal asked, and Mycroft spun around, smiling pleasantly at the pathologist.

“Yes, I offered to help Opal, and relieve you of any potential hair-holding duties,” Mycroft agreed, and the pathologist, clearly not completely pleased, sighed.

“I’ll let it slide just this once, Miss Hayes, but please don’t make a habit of dragging mentors from opposing districts down here, alright?”

“Of course not,” Opal promised, giving Mycroft a subtle wink with her good eye.

Once the two were back in the elevator, on their way back up to the ballroom, Mycroft made a snap decision, and hoped that there were no audio recording devices in the elevator.

As quietly as he could, he introduced the idea of Project Mockingjay to Opal, and as soon as he mentioned the promise that any contracts the victors had signed for President Snow would be rendered useless, Opal was all for the idea, just as Mycroft had predicted.

That was the starting point of Mycroft beginning to speak to the Career mentors about Project Mockingjay. One by one, he found a way to pull each mentor aside and explain his plans for Project Mockingjay. Of course, since they shared a Career mentality, Mycroft had to do a bit more explaining as to _why_ what the Capitol was doing was wrong, but he and Dean had spent three nights up on the rooftop of the training center trying to figure out how to word the right arguments, and with Dean’s knowledge of how the Careers thought, they were able to find multiple arguments that would surely work.

First off, what the Careers failed to understand was that, contrary to their beliefs, the Capitol was in control of everything around them, including their Hunger Games victories. They could pretend that their winning personalities and training scores had won the favor of the sponsors, and that their brawn or wit had led them to be the last tribute standing, but in reality, they were simply pawns of the Capitol’s. Even in the Arena, the Capitol manipulated each and every event that happened around them, such as dragging people out of hiding, herding them together, and sending muttations and elemental “accidents” upon them. After a certain point, it stopped being about who won and more about who survived. After everything was said and done, the victors never actually made themselves; the Capitol did.

Secondly, it was important to note the power the Capitol held simply by hosting the Hunger Games each year. The disorder of the Hunger Games, forcing children to fight and commit murder as punishment for a crime that they didn’t commit; the hate and animosity between the districts, made by attaching the ability to survive to whether or not their tributes survived the Hunger Games; the fame that was promised to each and every tribute that won the Hunger Games; all of this, in one way or another, kept all of the districts (even the Career Districts) under the Capitol’s thumb. Unless someone did something to stop the Capitol, the Capitol would always remain in control.

Their arguments seemed to work well, enough. When they gave their reasoning to James Hewlett, he turned down the offer to join Project Mockingjay but promised to keep the secret, anyway. Antonia Blake, however, did not even require the arguments; when Mycroft approached her (considering her nervousness in crowds Mycroft thought it would be better to have only one of them speak to her), the offer was barely out of his mouth before a light flashed across her eyes and she immediately announced that she was “in.”

And with that, Mycroft and Dean had successfully recruited a mentor from each of the Career Districts, and by that winter they would certainly have more victors from those districts on their side. Everything was going to plan, which left Mycroft with only one thing to worry about for the rest of the year’s Hunger Games: the fate of Kaden Chase.

Kaden made it to the final three and the last day of the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games. The four remaining tributes were spread throughout the Arena, so the Capitol used the promise of a feast to lure them out of their hiding places and to the Cornucopia. When Kaden and two out of the three other tributes arrived at the feast, located at the base of a cliff, the tributes were only greeted by a rockslide.

What happened next occurred within seconds: the surviving tribute from District Four, Alexander Waters, pushed the twelve-year-old tribute he had formed an alliance with early on out of the way of a falling boulder and accidentally into the vicinity of Kaden Chase. Alexander’s leg was trapped under the boulder he had protected the twelve-year-old from, but he could not protect him from Kaden, who dragged his knife along the boy’s neck without warning or ceremony. Just as the boy’s body hit the ground, one of the tumbling boulders hit Kaden in the head, immediately knocking him unconscious.

Alexander quickly began to tuck his trident under the boulder and pushing on the handle, trying to cause the boulder to lift from his leg. If Alexander got out in time, he could easily kill Kaden and get away from the scene, but that was going to take time. That, and, since the angle he was trying to push at was wrong, his escape might have called for a weapon that Alexander did not have.

If Kaden gained consciousness before Alexander was able to free himself from the rock, though, he would quickly and ruthlessly kill Alexander, with no remorse.

However, to make matters worse, the fourth (now third) remaining tribute was on her way to their location.

Dean and Mycroft glanced at each other, then quickly bent themselves over their own communicuffs. Project Mockingjay or not, they were still mentors, especially when the cameras on them; especially now. It was here that their district backgrounds stood out, threatening to divide them if their friendship was any weaker than it was. Dean, since the sponsors continuously favored the Career Districts, had more than enough sponsor money to buy the weapon, numbing medicine, and tourniquet Alexander would need to remove his leg, if he ended up needing to (which he would, Mycroft knew he would). Mycroft, however, since he was from District 12, needed to try to persuade any sponsors watching that taking the chance to invest in Kaden’s life was a good choice to make.

Mycroft knew what Kaden needed; he had seen it a few days ago while scrolling through the items available to send into the Arena. It was something like a stink bomb; a little ball that would open and release strong-smelling fumes the moment it touched the ground. However, instead of the fumes being of the rancid variety, the ball would emit ammonium carbonate, which would immediately revive Kaden. Since it wasn’t a weapon or food though, and because it was a chemical, it was nearly twice the price as the weapon Dean had already sent to Alexander Waters.

He knew he had to keep up appearances, to act as if he cared about his tribute’s life, to act like it was something worth saving. However, the more he spoke about it, the more he looked into the cameras of the paparazzi and practically begged for the money necessary to save Kaden’s life, the more Mycroft wanted to just let him die. Why was he even trying to save his life, anyway? If he won the Hunger Games (which he was so close to doing), he would move in next door to him and Sherlock. He would bully the boy ruthlessly, and Mycroft wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. They would both have killed people; Mycroft wouldn’t have any leverage over him. If he continued to try, if he continued to help, he’d be practically placing Kaden’s hands around Sherlock’s throat again –

As he reluctantly tried to convince the sponsors to give him the money Kaden needed, Mycroft kept an eye on the location of the third tribute. She was approaching quickly, led by the sound of Alexander’s inability to keep quiet while cutting off his own leg (though no one could really fault him for that), and for a moment Mycroft didn’t think he would have to worry about what would happen if he earned the money before the tribute reached him. However, just as Mycroft made one last push to the cameras for sponsors, just when he thought he had nothing to worry about, a single sponsor apparently had resonated with something with Mycroft had said, and donated more money than Mycroft had ever seen donated by a single person, before.

Suddenly, against all odds, Mycroft suddenly had enough money to save Kaden Chase’s life.

He had to act fast, but just as Mycroft’s finger hovered over the “buy” button, he found that he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do that to Sherlock; it would be the ultimate betrayal against the one person he cared about the most.

He glanced up at the screen. He didn’t have a lot of time before the third tribute would arrive; he would only have to stall for a minute. A minute, that’s all he needed.

And so, Mycroft pretended to press the buy button.

“Oh, no,” he said quietly, and instantly, Dean was at his side.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s not working,” Mycroft lied, pretending to press the button again, and he could hear the murmurs of confusion rattle throughout the paparazzi that surrounded them.

“It’s malfunctioning?” Dean asked.

“It would seem like it. I’ll turn it off and on again –” Mycroft said, quickly pressing the power button before anyone could tell him otherwise. Once it turned back on, Mycroft successfully put in the order for the ammonium carbonate bomb, but by the time it landed and deployed, it was too late.

Just as Kaden opened his eyes, an arrow from the third tribute soared into Kaden’s back, killing him instantly. The tribute then turned to Alexander, who threw his trident before she could let her arrow fly. Even at the low angle Alexander was at, considering that he couldn’t stand, and how weak he was from cutting off his own leg, he still was able to kill her easily.

And just like that, Kaden Chase was dead, and Alexander Waters was named victor of the Seventy-Eighth Hunger Games.

* * *

“So they questioned you?” Dean asked later that night, up on the roof of the training center.

“Cornered me, more like,” Mycroft muttered in reply. When Mycroft had gone to the Gamemaker’s offices to return his communicuff and sash for the year, one of the primary Gamemakers for that year was waiting for him, asking all sorts of questions about the “nature of the malfunction.” He gave them the simplest answer he could (that he didn’t have the technological experience to know what exactly might’ve happened). “The communicuffs don’t malfunction, do they?” Mycroft asked.

“Very rarely, but I don’t think they’ve ever done it while a tribute’s dying,” Dean replied. “Why?”

“Because I lied,” Mycroft admitted quietly, after a moment.

“You lied?” Dean repeated.

“It didn’t malfunction.”

“Why did you lie, then?”

“It’s complicated,” Mycroft muttered, even though it wasn’t complicated, at all.

“It’s personal,” Dean guessed. “Right? You knew him, didn’t you?”

“Not in so many words, but…” Mycroft started, debating as to whether or not he should share his reasoning. However, it was Dean, and if Mycroft trusted anyone not to judge him for his moral decisions it was Dean. “…Sherlock knew him. He was one of Sherlock’s bullies.”

“One of his bullies?” Dean repeated, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of the news.

“I was able to deduce it when he was reaped, but I wasn’t aware of what he had done until he killed the tribute from District One. There was a day that he grabbed Sherlock by the throat once and left bruises on him; the bruises on the District One tribute matched exactly. As soon as I knew that it was him that did that to Sherlock…”

“You couldn’t let him go back,” Dean said, seeming to understand.

“I shouldn’t have let my personal life get in the way of mentoring,” Mycroft said, and Dean shook his head.

“No, I get it. He would’ve hurt Sherlock again; what you did makes sense.”

“But I lied about the communicuff. They’re going to look into it; they’re going to find out that I lied.”

“You turned it off and on again, though,” Dean reminded him. “They may not be able to find anything, anyway – ”

“Then they’ll question me again and see if I slip up –”

“Which you won’t –”

“Obviously I won’t, but if they don’t believe me? They’ll call sabotage, Dean,” Mycroft said, and when Dean didn’t automatically try to disprove him he knew that it was true.

Sabotage was rare within the Hunger Games. Sometimes it was suggested; mentors would try to coax a strategy out of their opponents to run back to their tributes with or a tribute would try to start a fight with another tribute during their group training sessions in the effort to disable them. In fact, during Dean’s Hunger Games, a mentor or a tribute or the tribute’s family tried to sneak an unapproved weapon into the Arena. Depending on the severity of the offense, the Gamemakers would get involved, doling out a punishment as they saw fit. Sometimes a mentor would be banned from mentoring or a tribute would end up being especially targeted by the Gamemakers in the Arena, but if it came out that Mycroft outright lied to kill the tribute he was supposed to be saving? The punishment would be severe.

“What do I do?” he finally asked, the question being one that he didn’t think he had ever asked in his life.

Dean pondered Mycroft’s options for a moment before he finally spoke:

“I would tell Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” Mycroft repeated, incredulous. The two barely spoke; Mycroft had always found her peppiness disgustingly exhausting to exist around, especially after winning the Hunger Games. “And tell her what?”

“The truth,” Dean replied simply, shrugging. “Explain the situation. Tell her you weren’t thinking of the consequences and that you’re worried about the Gamemakers. Cry a bit, if you can manage it. If I remember correctly, she has a younger sister – I think she would understand.”

“And you believe she would help me with the Gamemakers?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re her only victor; she’s pretty protective of you, Mycroft.”

And so, that very night, Mycroft approached Martha Hudson, sitting her down and explaining everything about Kaden Chase; who he was, what he did, how Mycroft knew, and how Mycroft made sure that he wouldn’t be able to do it again. He was even able to shed a few tears as he told her that he was only trying to protect his brother. By the time he started getting to his point, before he could even inform her that the Gamemakers were suspicious of the malfunctioning communicuff, Mrs. Hudson was already waving the thought away, insisting that he had nothing to worry about, and that she would take care of them.

After that, the communicuff was never mentioned again. Mycroft was allowed to board the train to District 12 in peace (save for a brief interruption from James Hewlett, who informed Mycroft that he changed his mind about Project Mockingjay and asking to join), and it seemed as if he suddenly had grown more tolerant of Mrs. Hudson overnight.

Once he was in District 12 again, the first thing Mycroft did was retrieve Sherlock from the Watson’s house. The two brothers walked home in relative silence, enjoying the summer evening as the sun set around them, and for the first time in a while Mycroft found himself leading the conversation, itching for Sherlock to speak to him, dying to hear Sherlock’s chatter. However, the boy did not speak beyond giving his brother the shortest answers possible, until they were back within the walls of the Holmes household in the Victor’s Village.

Mycroft was still trying to engage his brother in conversation as they entered the house, but Sherlock spoke as soon as Mycroft closed the door to their house, cutting him off:

“You let him die, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft instantly stopped at the sound of Sherlock’s question. “You let Kaden Chase die on purpose.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. Honestly, Mycroft hadn’t thought that Sherlock would find out. The boy’s deductions were getting better.

Slowly, Mycroft turned on his heel to face his brother.

“I couldn’t let him come back to District Twelve after what he did to you,” he said in reply, and he watched as Sherlock practically shrunk back as the weight of what Mycroft had done settled upon the boy’s shoulders. He wanted to ask Sherlock why that was; why _this_ death mattered to him when Mycroft had killed before. Perhaps it was because Sherlock didn’t know anyone that Mycroft had killed previously? Or did he honestly not think the punishment fit the crime like Mycroft did? Instead, he settled on a slightly more pressing issue. “Does anyone else know?”

“Just John,” Sherlock admitted quietly. That was fine; that was part of the agreement they had made after the incident before Mycroft’s victory tour almost two years ago.

“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock nodded quickly.

It was alright that the boy didn’t completely understand, right now. Even though Mycroft hated the thought, he knew that Sherlock would understand, someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> What Should I Say? by The 1975 (for Mycroft recruiting the Career Mentors)


	13. Help.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's twelfth birthday approaches; in the face of Mycroft's contract becoming relevant, he and Dean formulate a plan to prepare Mycroft; Mycroft sneaks to District 4; Dean shares a deadly mistake he made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REMEMBER HOW LAST CHAPTER I SAID THAT THAT CHAPTER WAS THE LONGEST CHAPTER IN HUNGERLOCK HISTORY? I /MAY HAVE LIED A LITTLE BIT/. I counted out the pages last night and it turns out that THIS CHAPTER beat that record, and now the record amount of pages in a chapter of Hungerlock is 13 pages. I don't think this record will be beaten but WE'LL SEE.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Dubious consent towards the end of the chapter, but the scene itself is not explicit.  
> The events that take place in this chapter is touched upon in chapter 62 and 63 of Constantly, so if you've read that you know what I'm talking about.

_On their last night in the Capitol for the Sixty-Eighth Annual Hunger Games, after Alexander Waters’ victory and subsequent recap and final interview with Caesar Flickerman, Dean instructed Mycroft to meet him on the roof of the training center. This did not phase Mycroft in the slightest, for this would be their last opportunity to see each other before the Victory Tour next February. However, he was almost completely caught off guard when he arrived to find Dean presenting him with a large bottle of unopened liquor and two wine glasses, beaming from ear to ear._

_This was new. Mycroft barely even drank, let alone with Dean. Most, if not all, of their conversations, especially those on the rooftop, took place when at least Mycroft was sober._

_“Posca?” Mycroft questioned, and Dean chuckled._

_“I was able to get us something a little harder than Posca – a couple bottles of it, too. Because_ we _are celebrating tonight,” Dean announced, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow._

_“Your Career is showing,” he informed him. Of course this would be why Dean insisted upon celebrating: Alexander Waters was from his district; a victory for Alexander was a victory for Dean._

_“What? Oh, no – not about that,” Dean said, passing the glasses to Mycroft. “We got all of the Career Districts to join the Project – we made huge progress this summer!”_

_“I wouldn’t say_ all _of the Career Districts; we have Opal and Antonia and a few from your District –”_

_“Which is all of the Career Districts,” Dean informed him, and Mycroft sighed, shaking his head._

_“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed, chuckling._

_“And so, we are celebrating,” Dean said, opening the bottle._

_Mycroft had no expectations for drinking with Dean. He had seen Dean drink plenty of times (while Mycroft was one not to drink, Dean definitely was one that seemed to do it a lot), so he knew what Dean was like when he was inebriated. However, the most Mycroft had ever drank was a few sips of Posca, a Capitol wine that was practically nothing compared to what Dean poured into his glass now. Despite a general nervousness over his fear of the unknown, and what he might be like if he were to partake in Dean’s version of celebration, he drank with Dean, accepting the liquor as it burned down his throat, and it wasn’t half bad, really._

_At first, it was the celebration Dean promised it would be; they joked and laughed and drank and refilled their cups just to repeat the process over again. For a moment, Mycroft enjoyed this new part of himself that Dean and the liquor seemed to bring out of him; a Mycroft that didn’t worry, didn’t analyze, didn’t think. He said what he thought as he thought it, damning the consequences and the cause and effect that Mycroft always seemed to fret about, especially after his Hunger Games._

_However, as their conversation turned from the present to the future, the mood of the rooftop grew sour, saddened by the thought of reality._

_“I can’t believe a part of me thought we’d be done by now,” Mycroft murmured in reply to something Dean had said; some sort of statement that Mycroft would be unable to recollect, come morning._

_“You thought we’d be done, by now? Like, ready to take on Snow?” Dean asked, his voice slightly slurred, and Mycroft shrugged, swishing the contents of his glass around and watching it settle again._

_“I thought I’d be able to avoid it. Sherlock’s birthday. What it means,” Mycroft muttered._

_“Shit, it’s his twelfth, isn’t it?” Dean asked._

_“It is,” Mycroft confirmed._

_He in no way wanted to avoid Sherlock’s birthday altogether, like he had tried to avoid his own birthday the year he turned seventeen, but he wanted to live in that fantasy world where Sherlock’s birthday meant just that. He wanted to celebrate Sherlock’s twelfth birthday in a world where it didn’t mean that Mycroft was going to have to fear for Sherlock’s life every single summer for the next seven years, and where it didn’t mean that Mycroft’s contract suddenly came into effect._

_“When do you start?” Dean asked, obviously thinking about Mycroft’s contract, as well._

_“Knowing President Snow, he’ll probably call me into the Capitol the seventh of January,” Mycroft said, but even as he said it he could feel a heavy weight growing in the pit of his stomach. In less than six months, his body would be the Capitol’s property. “I thought that if I started Project Mockingjay I could have somehow kept Sherlock out of the Hunger Games, and myself out of the Capitol. I mean, that’s what inspired me to start it, anyway. We’re making a change, I can feel it, but not enough to stop anything, yet. I can’t help but feeling I’m back where I started.”_

_“But you’re not,” Dean said. “You just said we made progress – we’re_ making _progress. And plus, you’ve got your lines of defense.”_

_Mycroft’s first line of defense was actually inspired by Sherlock. When he returned from his Victory Tour, the contract and the deal with President Snow still fresh in his mind, he noticed Sherlock eyeing him strangely, so he asked the boy if there was a problem. Sherlock took the opportunity to inform him that he had put on weight, and Mycroft supposed he was correct; considering Mycroft had spent most of the last two weeks eating not only the Capitol’s food but also dinners from each of the other eleven districts, he supposed that he probably had gained a pound or two. However, when Sherlock announced that it looked “weird,” Mycroft had an epiphany: he only looked odd to Sherlock because Sherlock was used to how skinny Mycroft had been before winning the Hunger Games. In fact, all of Panem, the Capitol especially, was used to that version of Mycroft; the boy from the Seam so skinny that his ribs protruded from his torso. Perhaps his clients liked that about him? If they did, would they possibly lose interest in him if he gained enough weight? So, Mycroft had spent over a year trying to gain enough weight in the effort to find out, giving updates to Dean as regularly as he could, whenever Sherlock said anything about his weight gain._

_The second line of defense, however, was completely Mycroft’s idea, and his last hope: doing what he did best, holding nothing back. He had years of practice deducing strangers from District 12 and the Capitol alike; Mycroft was sure he could find a damaging secret in just about anyone who came his way. According to Dean, his clients would be some of the richest people in the Capitol; there had to be something that would ruin their reputation that Mycroft could deduce. He would then take a page from Sherlock’s book and let them know of everything he knew, not blackmailing as much as proving that he knew the information, and he could share it if he_ really _wanted to. If he did it right, he could suggest that he wouldn’t spill the secrets if his clients didn’t touch him. If he did it right, he’d scare them all off. He just had to hope that his clients wouldn’t call his bluff._

_If they did, though…_

_“I’m just concerned they won’t work,” Mycroft went on._

_“They’ll work,” Dean tried to assure him, but Mycroft wasn’t hearing it._

_“But if they don’t? I wasn’t even able to kiss my girlfriend when I had one; how am I supposed to do what they’re looking for?”_

_“You had a girlfriend?” Dean asked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, partially disgusted that_ that _was the detail Dean chose to latch onto._

 _“If only there was a way to prepare, to know what the worst of it is like…” Mycroft mused, drifting off. If he had the ability to prepare, he would at least_ know _what to expect in the event that his defenses didn’t work; he wouldn’t be completely left in the dark…_

_Then a thought occurred to Mycroft; a deduction that he had made in passing once before, last year. Any other night, any other time, Mycroft would’ve waved the thought from his head; if he were sober, he would’ve recognized that there was no way he could possibly ask a favor like that out of his friend._

_However, Mycroft wasn’t sober. Mycroft was just as inebriated as Dean was, if not more, considering that Dean had built something of a tolerance. His inhibitions were lowered, his tongue was loosened by the drink –_

_And that was the only reason Mycroft could ever find as to why he opened his mouth._

_“Hey, Dean?” he asked, suddenly. He definitely interrupted some sort of tangent that Dean was on, but Dean didn’t seem to care or remember exactly what his point was._

_“Yeah?” he asked._

_“Forgive me, but you’re bisexual, aren’t you? You have an attraction to both girls and boys?” Mycroft asked, and Dean, taking a sip of his drink as Mycroft spoke, started coughing as he choked on his liquor in surprise._

_“Um, yeah, I am,” Dean admitted, once the coughing subsided. “How long have you known?”_

_“I deduced it last year,” Mycroft answered quickly. “I apologize for bringing it up, but I think it might be useful, if you’re willing to…”_

_“Willing to do what?” Dean asked, and Mycroft met his eyes._

_“I need your help with something.”_

* * *

After that night, a plan was made, one that neither of them planned to back out of, even when they were sober: weeks before Sherlock’s twelfth birthday, Mycroft would take his chances and sneak onto a train to District Four, where Dean would meet him. From there, they would go to Dean’s house, where Dean would have ensured that they would be alone, and…

The only thing standing in his way was Sherlock.

Mycroft had been trying to tell Sherlock of his impending journey to District Four, but he could never seem to figure out the right way or the right time to do it. Despite keeping the secret of Project Mockingjay from his brother, this would be the first time that he would be legitimately _lying_ to Sherlock. He had spent the past few years telling him half-truths and avoiding certain topics of conversation, but if Mycroft had to tell Sherlock that he had to leave, there was no way he could possibly explain what he was leaving for. So, even though it killed him to lie to the boy, he knew he had to, this time.

However, he couldn’t bring himself to do it until the last possible second; the day before Mycroft was set to leave.

It was a Sunday morning, and the two brothers were sat at the kitchen table, eating breakfast. This was a routine Mycroft had gotten them into shortly after Mycroft’s seventeenth birthday; both of the boys had a tendency to skip meals, so instead of Mycroft simply telling Sherlock that he needed to eat three meals a day, he decided to at least eat breakfast with his brother every morning. That way, Mycroft knew that both of them at least ate one meal each day.

About halfway through breakfast that morning, though, Mycroft placed his fork on the table beside his plate, and Sherlock immediately glanced up at him.

“I received a phone call this morning, while you were sleeping,” Mycroft informed his brother. “Apparently, I’m wanted at the Capitol.”

It was the simplest lie Mycroft could think of, the easiest lie to tell. Really, Mycroft had called Dean early that morning, only to inform him through a false conversation full of code words that only they knew the true meaning of that he would be sneaking onto the train to District 4 the next day. However, the lie was close enough to what would soon be the truth; soon enough, Mycroft would be called to the Capitol quite frequently.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, confused by the news, and Mycroft knew exactly why.

“But it’s not time yet – it’s not even January –” Sherlock started.

“I know, but President Snow wants me there,” Mycroft said gently.

“Why?” Sherlock demanded.

“He didn’t specify; he probably wants me to play piano at one of his fancy parties,” he replied, trying to lighten Sherlock’s mood.

After Mycroft had won the Hunger Games, Mycroft had become aware that the Capitol required all of the Hunger Games victors to find some sort of talent they could exploit. For instance, Dean’s talent was painting; whenever he painted anything halfway decent, it was quickly sold to the highest bidder. Mycroft quickly found a talent that was simple enough for him to perform almost absentmindedly, and that was playing the piano. Upon hearing the news that Mycroft had found himself a talent, a piano was sent to the Holmes household in the Victor’s Village, along with the encouragement to send any pieces he wrote to Mrs. Hudson. Luckily, Mycroft was able to churn out a few pieces without much thought, and the Capitol devoured them; however, the best part of finding the talent was the way it entertained his brother.

From across the table, Mycroft watched as Sherlock now pursed his lips, still obviously upset but trying to accept the news.

“When do you leave?” he asked, finally.

“Tomorrow, while you’re at school,” Mycroft replied. Even though Mycroft would’ve preferred leaving under the cover of night, he at least wanted to ensure that Sherlock could get to school by himself. “Do you have your homework done, by the way?”

“Yes, it’s done,” Sherlock replied, and then a thought occurred to him. He sat for a moment, doing the math in his head, before looking up at his brother. “Are you going to be back in time for…for your…” he began to ask.

“For my birthday?” Mycroft asked quietly. Even very nearly two years after the absolute disaster that was Mycroft’s seventeenth birthday, Sherlock still had difficulty asking about Mycroft’s birthday. Mycroft smiled gently. “Yes, I’ll definitely be home so we can celebrate my birthday together.” In fact, Mycroft had made sure that he would return to District 12 for his nineteenth birthday when he and Dean had decided upon the day Mycroft would arrive in District 4. “I was thinking we could order a cake from the Capitol, would you like that? And we can invite the Watson family over? I believe John helped you pick out a gift for me, am I correct?” he asked, and Sherlock couldn’t contain his smile, even though Mycroft knew he was still upset about Mycroft’s departure.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Sherlock admitted, sheepish.

“That’s alright; whatever it is, I’m sure it will be more than satisfactory,” Mycroft assured him, and god, Mycroft wished he could photograph his brother’s grin, photograph that exact moment in time, one of the only times where Mycroft thought that perhaps he was a suitable guardian for Sherlock.

But then Sherlock rose from the table.

“I’m gonna go pack for the Watson’s, then,” he decided, and Mycroft mentally kicked himself. He shouldn’t have told him while he was eating; Sherlock always lost what little appetite he had once he realized Mycroft was leaving for the Capitol, even if Mycroft _had_ made it a little bit better by promising his birthday celebration upon his return.

He couldn’t chastise himself for long, though; he needed to inform Sherlock of the biggest change, the one that would affect him the most, before he could leave the kitchen.

“Actually,” Mycroft began slowly, halting his brother immediately. “I was considering the possibility of you perhaps staying here while I’m gone, from now on.”

Sherlock blinked, staring at his brother, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’ve been good for the Watson’s, though – do they not want me to come? Do – do they not like me, anymore?” Sherlock asked, anxiety beginning to dawn on his face, and Mycroft tried to soothe Sherlock’s worries.

“No, they do still like you, and I’m not saying you haven’t been excellent for the Watson’s. However, the Watson’s have been doing us a huge favor by watching over you while I’m away for as long as they have; we can’t impose on them forever.” Not to mention the fact that, unbeknownst to Sherlock for the time being, Mycroft would be called to the Capitol a lot more often, and Mycroft wouldn’t allow himself to just drop Sherlock off at a moment’s notice; he owed them enough as it was. “You’re also getting older, Sherlock. I believe that you’re old enough to stay here by yourself.”

Sherlock looked away from his brother, glancing around the room, as if making a mental checklist in his head. Mycroft had taught him how to use the oven and the stove and how to order things from the Capitol, Sherlock knew how to lock the door and where the spare key was, he knew the route to school and back so well he could probably do it blindfolded, and Mycroft had just bought him an alarm clock to get him up for school on time. Mycroft had prepared him for this moment, and Sherlock was now just realizing this for himself.

“…You trust me?” Sherlock asked, finally, and Mycroft nodded.

“Yes, I trust you,” Mycroft assured him, and Sherlock nodded back at him.

“Okay. Okay, then,” Sherlock agreed quietly, as if the boy had any more of a choice than Mycroft did, and that was that.

* * *

Sneaking onto the train to District 4 was easy enough to do, surprisingly; all he needed was a boot to stop the door to the District 12 supply car from closing and a piece of tape to place over the latch of the door to trick the sensor into sending the message to the train’s conductor that the door was closed. After that, all Mycroft needed to do was hide behind a couple of crates and count the amount of stops (ten, including breaks for water) until he reached District 4.

The hardest part of the journey to District 4, however, was leaving Sherlock behind. He had left the boy before for the Hunger Games and the Victory Tour and mentoring, but each time he left he knew (or at least thought) that Sherlock had someone watching over him. This time, however, Mycroft was completely leaving Sherlock alone to his own devices. He knew Sherlock would be fine; he had been fine the last time he was alone, after their mother died. Really, he was most definitely better off now than he had been when Mycroft had left for the Hunger Games more than two years ago; Mycroft had taught Sherlock everything he needed to know to survive by himself, not to mention the fact that they were the richest people in District 12, now.

Unfortunately, all the logic Mycroft had and all the reasons why Sherlock would be fine couldn’t stop Mycroft from worrying, and he had enough on his mind to worry about; so much so that his stomach had been in knots all week. The journey to District 4 was no exception; in fact, it seemed to only intensify the complete and utter nervousness that Mycroft felt in the pit of his stomach, coming to a head the moment Mycroft arrived in District 4, sneaking off the train and out of the train station.

He kept the hood of his black winter coat up over his head, trying to keep his head down as he found his way to the place he had agreed to meet Dean: a small, uninhabited beach next to the train station. Even through his coat, Mycroft found himself shivering, and he grit his teeth to keep them from chattering. It was a lot colder in District 4 than it was in District 12, and Mycroft was suddenly extremely grateful that he could finally wear winter attire again without nearly as many flashbacks as they triggered before. However, he was still on edge, and the coldness of the winter’s sea breeze wasn’t helping.

Mycroft was standing on the beach and had a cigarette in hand, about to light it, when he felt a gloved hand clap his back, as it had so many times before in the past –

“I almost didn’t recognize you with the hood – you alright?” Dean asked, once he realized that Mycroft had jumped at Dean’s arrival.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Mycroft lied, his mind racing as he struggled to breathe deeply. Mycroft was not one to be scared. In fact, when they were children, Sherlock created a game out of it, trying to startle Mycroft in every way he could; jumping out of random places, shouting at random intervals when he was just behind him, and running up and launching himself onto Mycroft’s back. Mycroft never jumped and never got scared by Sherlock, and a part of him always took great pride in that. Even in the Hunger Games nothing ever startled Mycroft. He was always hyper-vigilant, always aware of his surroundings, always ready for anything, until now. The simple touch had outright startled Mycroft; he had never been surprised like that in his entire life, _what was going on with him?_ “It’s cold, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I told you it would be cold, man. Luckily, our Victor’s Village is just up the hill,” he informed him, pointing up at a group of houses on a cliff overlooking the ocean. “Come on,” he said, wrapping his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and beginning to lead him up the hill.

Mycroft was used to walking like this with Dean; he had a tendency to put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders when he was drunk. However, Mycroft could smell no liquor on Dean’s breath as he talked to Mycroft about unimportant things, filling the silence as they walked together. Despite the familiarity of his touch, though, it felt different to Mycroft; heavier, as if it contained a weight that came with the knowledge of why Mycroft was in District 4. Both of them ignored it, and Mycroft played along, answering Dean’s questions and doing his part to fill the silence between them until they reached Dean’s house.

The houses in District 4’s Victor’s Village were much larger and much grander than the houses in District 12’s Victor’s Village, and for a fleeting moment Mycroft almost wanted to ask Dean about the rest of the houses in District 4. Did they have anything like the Seam in District 12, where the shacks were so small and decrepit that they were practically useless? Did Dean know a life like that as intimately as Mycroft did? It occurred to Mycroft then that he knew almost nothing of Dean’s life before winning the Hunger Games, and while Dean knew some of what Mycroft’s life had been like before his victory, Mycroft had hidden most of it from him as well as the rest of the Capitol. They only really knew each other as victors, even before Mycroft had actually won. Mycroft resolved to ask Dean more about his life before the Hunger Games, but he couldn’t do it that day; he was there for a reason, and it was not for that.

Once they finally reached Dean’s house, Dean opened the door for Mycroft and let him in, leading him into the hall of his home. It wasn’t very different from the hall of his own house in District 12’s Victor’s Village; it was just larger and nicer and smelled of the sea (as did everything in District 4, even Dean himself). Mycroft was still thinking of this when Dean stepped in front of him, gently pulling Mycroft’s hood off from his head.

“Let’s get a look at you –” Dean murmured softly, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Don’t make this weird, I beg of you,” Mycroft muttered, and Dean chuckled.

“‘Weird’?” he repeated. “Oh, this is beyond weird.”

Mycroft could feel his stomach drop at Dean’s words, and he could feel himself opening his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he was going to apologize to Dean for even suggesting what they were about to do or to begin to initiate it, but Mycroft would never find out, for then the two heard another voice.

“Dean? Is that you?” a woman’s voice called from deeper within the house, and Mycroft rounded on Dean immediately.

 _“Your family’s still here?!”_ he hissed, and Dean smiled sheepishly.

“Just my mom – I –”

“Dean!” the woman called again as she rounded the corner and entered the hall where Dean and Mycroft stood, and Mycroft found himself face-to-face with who he could only assume to be Dean’s mother, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “And you must be Mycroft Holmes!” she exclaimed happily, closing the distance between them and bringing Mycroft into a hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! We’ve heard so much about you!”

“All good things, I hope,” Mycroft replied, glancing at Dean from over her shoulder. They had talked about this, they had _agreed,_ Dean had _sworn_ that his family would _not be around for this –_

“Oh, of course! Dean never has a bad word to say about anybody!” she replied, letting go of Mycroft and holding him at arm’s length. “It’s an honor to have you in our home.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here, and to meet you, Mrs. Bainbridge,” Mycroft said, gracefully remaining as polite as ever in the face of Dean’s betrayal (and Mycroft’s general uneasiness that day).

“Oh, please, call me Etheline, or Ethel if you prefer.”

“He’ll probably just call you Mrs. Bainbridge, Mom,” Dean informed her. “Mycroft’s pretty proper.”

Mycroft refrained from rolling his eyes, but watched the mother and son carefully as they interacted, his eyes flicking back and forth between them, trying to make any deductions he could about Mrs. Bainbridge’s knowledge of the nature of Mycroft’s visit. Did she know what they were about to do? Did Dean somehow let it slip?

Before he could figure it out, Mrs. Bainbridge placed her hand on Mycroft’s shoulder _(what_ was with _the touching_ in _this family?_ Dean must’ve learned his lack of personal space from _her –)_ as she informed the two that she was off to the shops of District 4 to pick up supplies for dinner, as she planned to make a dish specific to District 4 since Mycroft was staying for dinner. Mycroft glanced again at Dean as she spoke; that was _not_ part of the plan, and Dean seemed to know this, for he smiled apologetically in response. She then revealed that she’d be gone for about two-to-three hours, and Mycroft looked back at her to make his deduction: she thought this visit was related to Project Mockingjay, of course. Dean didn’t betray him, after all.

The moment Mrs. Bainbridge left the house, Mycroft could feel the relief settle on his shoulders, but he was still tense, wound up like a drum as he looked back at Dean.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Dean said the moment they locked eyes. “She’s been dying to meet you ever since I told her about the Project, and when I told her you were coming over she launched into making dinner plans; I didn’t even have the chance to say no. I thought she’d be gone by the time we got here. Steven’s at work, so we don’t really have to worry about him until dinnertime.”

It took a second for Mycroft to remember who Steven was; early on, while Mycroft was still a tribute, Dean, in the effort to convince Mycroft to open up to him about his life at home, shared details about his own life with Mycroft. One of the first things he told him about was the members of his family: his mother and his brother, Steven. Steven was older than Dean by about three years (making him about twenty-two, now) and worked as one of the fishermen in District 4; a fate Dean himself would have seen if he hadn’t won the Hunger Games. Dean did not mention his father, and Mycroft didn’t ask.

“It’s fine,” Mycroft decided, and it was, he supposed, despite his initial annoyance at Dean. At the mention of his brother, Mycroft had moved on to other matters. “Could I use your phone? Sherlock should be home from school by now –” Mycroft mused, checking his father’s pocket watch as he spoke. After Mycroft’s arrival at the Capitol was no longer important enough to televise, Mycroft quickly got into a habit of calling Sherlock whenever he left for the Capitol, making a point to call him as soon as he arrived. He believed it helped Sherlock, knowing that Mycroft had made it to the Capitol safe and sound.

“Um, –” Dean started, his tone uncertain, and only once Mycroft met his eyes did he understand why.

“Right. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Of course; the Capitol monitored any call that came over the line. As soon as they heard Mycroft’s voice coming from a District 4 phone when he was supposed to be in District 12, Mycroft’s location would instantly be found out; he could practically feel his tongue being cut loose from his body at the thought. He should’ve thought of this before he even asked for the phone; his anxiousness could only be at fault for that.

“I could call him?” Dean offered, and instantly Mycroft shook his head.

“No. No, absolutely not. What would you even say to him? That I’m in District 4 and that I wanted him to know that the train didn’t swallow me up or whatever he thinks when I’m gone? That’s almost as stupid as calling him myself,” he said, crossing his arms.

“It’s risky, sure, but I know how you are when it comes to him. If someone doesn’t check on him it’ll drive you insane.”

And perhaps he was right; perhaps he didn’t make the call solely for Sherlock’s sake. Perhaps he did it as much for himself as he did it for Sherlock. Perhaps it was just as important for Mycroft to know that Sherlock didn’t collapse in on himself as soon as Mycroft turned his back as it was for Sherlock to know that the train didn’t eat Mycroft as soon as he set foot upon the locomotive. Mycroft would never admit such a thing out loud, though, so how the hell did Dean know? How the hell did he allow for Dean to know him that well?

Arms still crossed, Mycroft pursed his lips, staring at Dean as he thought this over. He trusted him, he truly did, but he still struggled to share details about Sherlock to him, even after knowing Dean for nearly two and a half years. It wasn’t about Dean himself that made Mycroft wary, but his connection to Mycroft’s life in not only the Hunger Games but also Project Mockingjay that made Mycroft infinitely more protective over Sherlock.

“What will you say?” Mycroft asked quietly, trying to open himself up to the idea.

“Nothing you don’t want me to say,” Dean replied.

Mycroft stared at him a moment more, before slowly nodding.

“Fine,” he decided.

“Alright then, come on.”

Dean led Mycroft to the phone in the sitting room, where Mycroft watched as he dialed Mycroft’s phone number from memory, putting the phone to his ear and listening to it ring. After what was sure to be about five rings, Mycroft opened his mouth:

“He may not even pick up,” he noted in a whisper. Sherlock had never picked up the phone before; Mycroft had always been there to pick up the phone before Sherlock had even thought about it. He honestly wasn’t sure what Sherlock would do if the phone rang when Sherlock was home alone; the two had never actually discussed the fact that Sherlock was allowed to pick up the phone in Mycroft’s absence.

However, before Dean could reply to Mycroft, he straightened up, as if at attention, opening his mouth to speak into the receiver. Evidently, Sherlock had picked up, after all.

“Hello, is Mycroft there?...I’m…” Dean glanced at Mycroft, and Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock didn’t need to know his name; if he did, Sherlock would probably ask about him when Mycroft returned from District 4. With any luck, Sherlock would delete this conversation before Mycroft even arrived home, and making Dean just a nameless voice over the phone would help that. “…a friend of Mycroft’s,” he said, and then laughed in response to whatever Sherlock had replied with. “Of course Mycroft has friends! If Mycroft didn’t have friends, why would I be calling?...Oh, no; I’m a victor of the Hunger Games, like Mycroft is –” Dean started, but Mycroft waved his hand in front of his neck, signifying that Dean needed to refrain from continuing that line of thought. “– anyway, you said he wasn’t home?...Of course he will,” Dean agreed to something, then glanced at Mycroft. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, warning against him saying anything too personal, something stupid like “you’re Sherlock, right?” or “Mycroft’s told me so much about you.” Instead, Dean nodded before turning his attention back to the phone. “When he does, please tell him I called, would you?...Thanks, Sh –” he started, and then stopped when he realized what he was about to say. “Have a good night…bye,” he said, and then hung up the phone, looking up at Mycroft.

“You almost slipped up, there,” Mycroft noted.

“Yeah, I know, – I forgot I wasn’t supposed to know his name for a second,” Dean admitted.

“I’m sure it’s alright. I appreciate you making the call,” Mycroft said. “Did he seem alright?”

“Yeah, he seemed fine. He said you’d be home soon.”

“That’s because he’s terrified that he’ll be taken away from me if he tells anyone that I’m out of the District,” Mycroft informed him.

“Right, I get that. Oh, and he did tell someone to shut up when he picked up the phone – I think his name was John? Does that sound like someone that should be alone in your house with your brother?” Dean asked.

“Yes, John’s alright,” Mycroft replied, nodding. John was perfectly fine; Mycroft had left the two alone while he ran errands plenty of times. He did make the mental note to inform Sherlock that telling his friend to “shut up” was not the way for him to go about keeping his friend, however.

“He’s funny. He’s a good kid, I can tell. You’re doing a good job with him, really,” he said quietly, and Mycroft glanced away, fighting the urge to disagree. “Anyway…” Dean went on, even quieter, once he realized that Mycroft was not going to reply. “…My room?” he offered, and suddenly Mycroft forgot how to breathe.

Despite this, he found himself nodding anyway. Not necessarily because he wanted to, but because that’s why he was there.

And so, he let Dean lead him up the stairs of the house and into Dean’s room.

The second they entered his room, Mycroft’s senses were practically assaulted with the smell of Dean; the room reeked of him. That wasn’t really a terrible thing, though; he smelled mostly like the sea, mixed with booze and just a hint of chocolate (Dean had a huge sweet tooth, always taking chocolate home from the Capitol at the end of each Hunger Games). He usually wore cologne to cover some of it, but it was unavoidable here in his room.

Mycroft stood by the closed door, pointedly trying not to notice as Dean crossed his room and sat down on his bed, instead glancing around Dean’s bedroom, taking in his new surroundings.

He quickly noticed that the basis of Dean’s room was set up similarly to Mycroft’s; perhaps every victor’s room came with a bookshelf and a desk, no matter what District they were from. Dean’s bed was up against the wall across from the door, under the large window that gave Mycroft what he had to admit was a beautiful view of the ocean. The only thing ruining the view was the twelve plaques from each of the Districts given to Dean for winning the Hunger Games, which Dean put up on the wall around the window. Mycroft had gotten these plaques too, but they were currently hidden under his bed.

He also noticed Dean’s victor’s crown had its own place on his bookshelf, next to his copy of the Mentor Manifesto and his copy of the recording of his Hunger Games that the Capitol had gifted to him. Mycroft was also gifted with the recording of his own Hunger Games, as well, which Mycroft immediately destroyed at his first opportunity. Mycroft vaguely wondered for a moment why Dean chose to display the souvenirs from his victory, and whether it had to do with his Career mentality or if Mycroft should also show this level of pride as a victor.

His eyes then landed on a couple of maps Dean had posted above his desk. He recognized the shapes of them from his school books to be maps of District 4 and the Capitol, but the maps at school were not this detailed; each street and area was labeled, and Dean himself had highlighted important parts in both locations, such as the Training Center in the Capitol and what Mycroft could only assume to be his old house in District 4.

Finally, Mycroft looked to Dean’s desk; it was relatively clean, besides a few notes that Dean had written to himself that were too vague for Mycroft to figure out without making some sort of deduction, and a framed picture of Dean’s family in the corner of his desk. It was obviously taken about ten years before Dean won the Hunger Games; Dean was about six, smiling happily with a nine-year-old boy who Mycroft assumed was Steven, standing in between a woman who Mycroft recognized as his mother and a man that looked so similar to the two boys that Mycroft didn’t need to make the deduction to know that he was Mr. Bainbridge. He suddenly recalled that Dean had mentioned having a father during his tribute interview with Caesar Flickerman, but he hadn’t mentioned him to Mycroft when he talked about his family the following year.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked about my dad…unless you deduced it, already?” Dean asked, breaking Mycroft’s thoughts, watching him as he stared at the photo, and Mycroft shook his head.

“My father died when I was eleven in a mine explosion, and we’re all well aware of how and when my mother died. My brother was orphaned before he even lived for a decade. I tend not to ask about broken families and where the missing members are,” Mycroft replied simply, and he could see Dean nodding in understanding in his peripheral vision.

“I said no to Snow, once,” Dean said quietly, and Mycroft’s eyes flicked to his. “I signed the contract, I didn’t complain when I got clients, but there was one…” Dean trailed off, looking down and picking a loose thread on his blanket. “He just kept asking for me and asking for me and that was fine and he was nice and everything, but he…I kept…his –”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Mycroft said quickly. He wasn’t going to deduce it, either. The memory was Dean’s; Mycroft wasn’t going to touch it.

“I’m not going to,” Dean assured him just as quickly, but it still took a moment for him to continue. “There was one time where he asked for me back to back, within a week, and I hadn’t even healed from the last time…so when my manager called me to the Capitol, I refused. I explained the situation the best I could and I told him that I couldn’t take him without making things worse. My manager seemed to understand, but I still broke contract. He told me there was going to be consequences.” Dean suddenly looked up at Mycroft, eyes desperate as he defended himself. “And I thought I knew them – I thought Snow was going to cut back my winnings or something, and that was fine! I didn’t need all the money, we could survive just fine without it! So I said I would take the punishment,” he revealed, then glanced away, staring at the wall behind Mycroft, reliving the memory as he spoke, tears shining in his eyes. “Then the Peacekeepers came. During my interview with Caesar Flickerman, before my Games, I had said that I was really close to my dad. I guess Snow remembered that because the Peacekeepers went straight for my dad, as if they were ordered to. They came and took him outside, forced him on his knees, and they…they shot him in the head. And they made us all watch.”

For a second, Mycroft was brought back almost two years into the past, to his meeting with President Snow, when he had refused to sign the contract because of his brother. He remembered President Snow’s response when Mycroft told him that Sherlock couldn’t live in the Capitol.

_“Well, we could always eliminate the dilemma; that would certainly solve the problem, wouldn’t it?”_

That day they had come to a compromise, but if Mycroft refused a client, or broke contract in any way, he would do the unspeakable. For a moment, the sequence of events played out in his head: the Peacekeepers breaking down the door, dragging Sherlock, kicking and screaming, outside, shoving him to his knees, the gun on his head –

“I’m sorry about your father, Dean,” Mycroft murmured, speaking to stop his mind from imagining the worst, and Dean chose this moment to look down at the floor.

“We’re surviving. Steven really stepped up, like I’m sure you did when your father died in the mines. I just can’t believe I did that to my mom…”

Mycroft tried to imagine standing in Dean’s place; something that _he_ did setting off the explosion in the mines, killing his father, and knew that he could only imagine the pain Dean himself was in.

“You didn’t know,” Mycroft tried, and Dean shook his head.

“No, but I should’ve just…” After a moment, his eyes found Mycroft’s again. “That’s why I agreed to this.”

“To Project Mockingjay or to this?” Mycroft asked, gesturing to the space between them.

“To both,” Dean clarified. “The Hunger Games, and everything that comes after, is a sick joke that we just continue to play, over and over again. I’m tired of playing, and I’m tired of people losing the people that they love. That’s why I joined the Project. And as for you…I was lucky, that I had a little bit of experience under my belt before I was even reaped for the Games. You haven’t, and that doesn’t put you in a good place with your clients. Your first time should be with someone who gives a shit, not with someone who just bought you.”

Suddenly, the words came tumbling out of Mycroft’s mouth before he realized what he was saying:

“We don’t have to do this today, or at all, if you’re not –” he started, and Dean shook his head, rising from the bed and making his way to Mycroft.

“No, I’m alright. Besides, you snuck on the train and came all the way here for a reason. And we may not have the opportunity to reschedule.”

“Thank you, by the way, for doing this, you didn’t have to –” Mycroft started, and Dean chuckled and rolled his eyes, placing his hand on Mycroft’s cheek. The touch was strange and unprecedented between them, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

“Please don’t thank me, I beg of you. That’ll make this weird,” Dean informed him, and Mycroft loosened his jaw enough to speak.

“I think we’re beyond weird,” he said quietly, as Dean brought his face closer to his.

“Definitely,” he breathed.

Kissing Dean Bainbridge was a strange experience. As far as Mycroft was concerned, it was a mess of lips and tongues and spit that Mycroft could not find desirable in any way whatsoever.

When he was in school, before winning the Hunger Games, he used to see couples in his classes and the classes above him kissing all the time in the hallways between classes; he remembered trying to maneuver his way around them since they always seemed to be in his way specifically. He could never understand the appeal, and was almost afraid of kissing Lindsay in the three-week span that they “dated,” if he could even call it that. If he was like how everyone else seemed to be, he and Lindsay probably would’ve been a couple for the rest of their lives, getting married at eighteen; Lindsay probably would’ve ended up bearing Mycroft’s children, if things had gotten that far. However, Mycroft wasn’t like everyone else. He hated all of it; being touched beyond holding hands, being paid attention to, the idea of “romance.” Back then, Mycroft went through the motions because he figured he’d get used to it, until he couldn’t stand it any longer and told Lindsay the truth; that he liked her only as a friend, and probably would never date anyone. Considering that Mycroft rejected her, Lindsay took it quite well, but Mycroft knew that the Capitol wouldn’t, and his clients wouldn’t, no matter how he explained it to them.

Which is why he was there. Which is why he didn’t push Dean away as he kissed him, even though he wanted to. Which is why he let Dean lead him by the hand to his bed and why he let Dean lay him down upon it, even though he wanted to get up and forget this ever happened.

Finally, Dean asked if he was ready, and Mycroft knew that would be the first and last time he would ever be asked that question in this context. His clients would never give him that choice, and if they did, Mycroft doubted they would listen if he gave them an answer they didn’t like. Which meant he couldn’t say no, even though everything within him was screaming that exact answer. He had to be ready for what was to come, and this was the only way he could know.

And so, even with his heart hammering in his chest, Mycroft met Dean’s eyes and nodded.

“Yes.”


	14. Shame.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's contract comes into effect; Mycroft meets his first client; Sherlock turns twelve and gains an attitude; The Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games (NICE) occurs; Mycroft and Dean pointedly do not discuss what happened in District 4.

The following seven months seemed to fly by after Mycroft’s return from District 4. Sherlock’s twelfth birthday was almost three weeks after Mycroft’s nineteenth (Sherlock had given him a blanket and an umbrella stand for his birthday), and Mycroft spent most of his time between the two dates ensuring that all of Sherlock’s presents arrived on time.

As Mycroft predicted almost a year ago, Mycroft’s manager appeared on his doorstep January seventh while Sherlock was at school (thank god). The man, Cletus Petrunich (a stout, fifty-year-old man whose glasses continuously slipped to the edge of his nose just to be pushed back again) wasn’t necessarily bad; Mycroft easily deduced that he took no pleasure in any of this. He was just doing his job, and Mycroft couldn’t fault him for that. However, he had to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to be angry with Mr. Petrunich as he went over the details of his contract again, informed him of just how many clients he had (twenty eight, though he had almost fifty when Mycroft originally signed the contract), and answered any questions Mycroft might’ve had (which he didn’t). Mycroft almost felt bad for the man, except for the fact that he was helping make Mycroft’s situation so much worse.

The first call from Mr. Petrunich sent a wave of panic into Mycroft’s core, similar to the one that he had gotten when he snuck to District 4 to meet with Dean, and like that anxiety, it settled into his stomach and rode with him all the way to the Capitol. It did not let up as Mycroft was driven by a private limousine to the hotel room in question, or even when Mycroft met the man who bought his body for the day. His name was Ignatius Donalbain, and Mycroft instantly recognized his name from the Capitol news; he was one of President Snow’s lower-ranking advisors. Of course he would be the first; government officials probably got the first choice when it came to this. The fact that he worked so directly with President Snow heightened Mycroft’s already-raised anxiety, but not enough to change his mind about his plan. His position didn’t matter; if anything, it would make finding a damaging secret so much easier.

The portly, fidgety man approached him, putting his hand out for Mycroft to shake and introducing himself, congratulating Mycroft on his Hunger Games victory (something, Mycroft realized, he had not heard in a while). He then asked if Mycroft had ever “done anything like this” before, and Mycroft knew exactly what he meant.

“No, I haven’t,” Mycroft lied smoothly. He wasn’t sure what made him lie; perhaps it was the reasoning behind _why_ Mycroft had the experience he had, or the fact that Mycroft had spent the past month fighting between wanting to delete the experience from his memory and knowing that he needed to keep it. No matter what the reason, though, Ignatius seemed unnaturally pleased with Mycroft’s answer.

“Good. Good, that’s good…” he replied, trailing off as Mycroft watched his eyes trail over Mycroft’s body, even though Mycroft was still completely clothed. He was glad Mycroft hadn’t done this before; he wanted him untouched.

The man stepped closer, and at that moment Mycroft wished he had told him the truth.

Swallowing his fear and disgust, Mycroft’s eyes flickered about the man, searching for and collecting any information he could possibly use to incriminate him, anything that Mycroft could use to change his mind –

Going by the dryness of his hands, he was a bit mysophobic, which explained his excitement upon hearing that Mycroft was untouched, but that was nothing –

The handkerchief in the breast pocket of his coat was slightly stained with sweat, suggesting that he worked out often despite his weight, but that was irrelevant –

Judging by different-colored cat hair around the ankles of his otherwise perfect pants, he owned three cats and no children, but that was _stupid –_

Ignatius then raised his left hand (he was left-handed) to touch Mycroft; where, Mycroft didn’t have time to figure out, but Mycroft _did_ notice a tan line on his ring finger –

He was married, the ring was recently removed –

Mycroft had noticed Ignatius was fidgety when he walked in, like he was nervous; he was _still_ fidgety _now –_

That was it –

“Does your wife know you’re here?” Mycroft asked, and Ignatius froze, hand still raised, poised to stroke Mycroft’s cheek (he knew this now). Obviously, he had struck something within Ignatius. This was good. “She has no idea, does she? That you’re here? That you like men, men half your age, apparently?”

Ignatius stared at Mycroft, eyes wide as he slowly and disjointedly dropped his hand. After another few moments, Ignatius opened his mouth, silently forming the beginnings of words until he was able to find his voice.

“I – she’d want a divorce, if she knew –”

“Rightfully so,” Mycroft replied, unsympathetic.

Perhaps they were in love at some point, or he thought he was in love with her, and perhaps he felt awful about it, but that didn’t excuse the man’s selfishness. It would certainly be a difficult conversation to have, maybe even a little embarrassing for both parties, but why not get it over with so they could move on with their lives and marry people they were more compatible with? However, the people of the Capitol didn’t think like that, didn’t use logic or common sense or consider human decency like most people did; they only thought about themselves and always had _their_ image in mind. A divorce wouldn’t do much to Ignatius’ image, though, especially if he was the one to file for it. Unless –

Suddenly, it occurred to Mycroft that he had heard Ignatius Donalbain’s last name before, and not on Capitol television; at least, not on any channel that Mycroft would watch. He had heard it from Mrs. Hudson.

Normally, he would ignore and instantly delete anything that came out of Mrs. Hudson’s mouth, but after she helped him with the communicuff malfunction fiasco, he decided to stop completely ignoring her, letting her talk his ear off all the way back to District 12 last year. He had planned on deleting anything he retained later, but now he was glad he never got around to it.

“I –” Ignatius started, but Mycroft cut him off.

“Your wife is Cassia Donalbain, isn’t she? That stylist for Capitol Couture?” Mycroft asked, and Ignatius nodded miserably.

Capitol Couture was the Capitol’s most popular fashion magazine; all of the stylists and prep teams were obsessed with it, seeing as they an entire issue dedicated to the Hunger Games in July and the Victory Tour in February. Mycroft himself had ended up on the cover of those issues the year that he won his Hunger Games (Mrs. Hudson sent him copies of both issues), but Mycroft never gave much thought to the existence of the magazine until now. The Capitol was all about fashion, so anyone involved was instantly a celebrity, but Cassia Donalbain wasn’t just someone who was merely involved with the magazine. According to Mrs. Hudson, there were five main stylists that practically ruled Capitol Couture, and Cassia was the fan favorite.

If Ignatius was married to a Capitol civilian, he could keep the reason behind their divorce under wraps. However, Cassia was infinitely more famous than her husband. She had the platform to talk about their divorce in detail, ultimately outing Ignatius to all of the Capitol, and she could easily demonize him simply because he broke her heart.

“You’re just a politician, she’s a celebrity,” Mycroft mused. He needed all the support he could get, and a scandal like this could destroy his career, if she played it up enough.

“She can’t know,” Ignatius whispered, his eyes pleading.

“And she won’t,” Mycroft stated. “Your secret is safe with me –”

“Oh, thank you –” Ignatius started, relieved, but Mycroft wasn’t done.

“– _as long as_ you turn around and leave the way you came,” Mycroft finished. “You will not touch me, and you will never mention this appointment, and I won’t tell a soul.”

At this, Ignatius’ eyes widened, obviously betrayed, but Mycroft didn’t care.

“But I paid a lot of money for –” he started.

“And you will not ask for it back,” Mycroft informed him coolly. “You are going to go on with your life. You are going to act as if you had never asked for me; you are going to forget we were ever in this room, and that this conversation ever took place. If I hear that my name has so much as passed your lips, I am going to personally ensure that your wife is very much aware of what you attempted to do to me here, today, and I will watch as your name goes down in flames.” Ignatius gaped at Mycroft for a moment, but Mycroft wasn’t quite done. “And please, for the love of god, divorce your wife. You can’t keep lying to her forever.”

“But I couldn’t possibly tell her why –”

“Then don’t,” Mycroft said. “Find a reason, any reason. Tell her that you recently discovered you don’t like cats, I literally could not care less. I assume you loved her at one point, didn’t you?”

“Yes!” Ignatius exclaimed. “Yes, of course –”

“Then respect her enough to let her be happy, will you?”

“I will! I will – and then…” Ignatius trailed off, that hungry look that Mycroft hated slowly returning to his eyes, and Mycroft shook his head.

“Divorce or not, I will tell everyone if you ask for me again.”

“What if – what if I told her the truth?” he asked. “Then would you consider –”

“Well, at that point, I would’ve seen at least ten of my other clients,” Mycroft informed him, and Ignatius’ hopeful smile slipped from his face at the thought.

Ignatius Donalbain decided to take his leave at that point, bidding Mycroft good-day and thanking him for the opportunity to meet him, and quickly shuffling from the room.

The moment the door closed, Mycroft exhaled, feeling as if he had been holding his breath since Mr. Petrunich called him in District 12. Upon the following inhale, though, Mycroft found himself gasping for air, like he had never breathed before in his life. He tried again, forcing the air out and into his lungs, still finding great difficulty in doing so. Thinking quickly, Mycroft crossed the room, leaning slightly on his umbrella like a cane for support, and pushed the nearest window open. As a little voice in his mind wondered vaguely if the anti-fall technology the Capitol had was in effect at the hotel, Mycroft nearly put his head out the window in the effort to put the newly-accessed fresh air into his lungs.

After a few slow breaths, Mycroft was confident his body had successfully remembered how to breathe again, and Mycroft stood up straight once more. A few breaths more, and he raised his hand to shut the window, only to notice that his hand was shaking. He glanced to his other hand, still holding his umbrella, and he saw that his knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping the umbrella as his hand shook. Determined, Mycroft closed his free hand into a fist, which lessened the tremor (but only barely), casting his gaze out the open window, watching The Capitol buzzing with life before him, feeling the quiver of its beating heart as he did his own.

He was alright. His second line of defense had worked perfectly, just as he hoped it would. What he was experiencing now was simply just adrenaline from using his deductions how he had. Sherlock probably felt like this all the time, considering that the boy was constantly using his deduction skills to spill the secrets of others. Perhaps Sherlock even enjoyed the rush it gave him, while Mycroft could happily live without it.

With his eyes still on the world outside of the hotel room, Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and his lighter, and as he put the cigarette to his lips, he assured himself that this would get easier as time went on.

He just wasn’t quite sure whether or not he was lying to himself, just yet.

* * *

After Mycroft’s first client, Mr. Petrunich called Mycroft once a week to inform him that he was to board the next train to the Capitol. The first few times Sherlock was either home from school or sleeping when the calls came through, so Mycroft could easily tell him he was leaving for the Capitol before he actually left (even if it involved waking him up). However, after about a month, Mr. Petrunich eventually called Mycroft to the Capitol while Sherlock was at school. Mycroft understood that it was only a matter of time before this happened, but still, simply leaving Sherlock with a note to come home to was one of the hardest things Mycroft had done since winning the Hunger Games. To try to make up for it, Mycroft made sure to visit the sweet store Dean frequented before leaving the Capitol, practically buying the entire store to make it up to him.

Sweets or not, Sherlock seemed to resent Mycroft for all of his trips to the Capitol.

Sherlock seemed to change shortly after his twelfth birthday, almost as if he had flipped a switch inside of him. Mycroft had always known his brother as Mycroft’s opposite: naive, easily distractible, talkative, relatively unbothered by the things that should have scarred the boy for life, and content. Now, however, Sherlock had completely changed. He was now quiet, reserved, haunted, abrasive, and, most of all, angry. He was always a moody child, and Mycroft always took the highs and lows as they came, however Sherlock’s mood swings were much more severe, and if he wasn’t completely content, he was practically livid. He was so angry, slamming doors and stomping around the house, his tongue sharp with obscenities Mycroft didn’t even know Sherlock was aware of. It didn’t help that the qualities of Sherlock’s that always bothered Mycroft the most; his rudeness, his stubbornness, his disrespect for authority, had strengthened after Sherlock’s birthday, making his anger even worse.

Even his deductions were changing. Mycroft had noticed last summer that he was getting smarter with them, was able to catch the things that he previously had never been able to, starting with his ability to see through Mycroft’s lie about his communicuff before Mycroft had even returned home from the Capitol. It didn’t stop there, though; when he was younger, Sherlock spouted deductions as they came to him, not damning the consequences so much as not even realizing they were there until it was too late. He knew of the consequences, now, and somewhere down the line he decided that he wasn’t going to care what they were. He suddenly became ruthless with his deductions, using them as a weapon like Mycroft had begun using his, saying exactly the things that would get him in the most amount of trouble for no discernable reason.

The worst part of it, though, was the way Sherlock treated Mycroft. As a child, especially the year after Mycroft’s Hunger Games, Sherlock idolized his brother, following him around like a puppy, always searching for just a shred of Mycroft’s attention or approval. At the time, Mycroft had been annoyed by this behavior; Mycroft was a solitary person, who enjoyed peace and quiet more than anyone he knew. Now, of course, whenever Sherlock was bored and turned his most vicious of deductions upon his brother, Mycroft missed the boy he once knew. Of course, Mycroft would never turn his back on him, no matter what Sherlock did, and honestly, he understood Sherlock’s anger and why he felt the need to take it out on Mycroft. First of all, Sherlock knew that Mycroft wouldn’t leave him like so many others had, so he could get away with it over and over again. Secondly, Mycroft had spent most of January going back and forth to the Capitol; he had quickly slipped back into his “guardian first, brother later” role, which never worked for Sherlock in the first place.

This was why, as the end of January came upon them and Mycroft received the paperwork needed to go to the Capitol for the Victory Tour Banquet, Mycroft did not fill them out as he had each year previously. Mr. Petrunich had already told Mycroft that he wouldn’t have any clients during the two-week span of the Victory Tour; Mycroft was not about to turn around and go to the Capitol anyway when he didn’t necessarily have to. Alexander Waters was Dean’s tribute; Dean had already given Alexander the speech and had gotten him to join Project Mockingjay (Dean had told him this in December). Not to mention the fact that the Careers that Mycroft had suggested go to the Victory Tour Banquet to report back to him were all Dean’s people, anyway. Mycroft could afford one family emergency to miss the banquet; he owed it to Sherlock.

Of course, when he told Sherlock that he was staying home for the next two weeks, Sherlock did not seem pleased or upset by the news, but Mycroft wasn’t expecting Sherlock to jump up with glee, either. The only thing Mycroft could really hope for was to see any sort of change in Sherlock’s behavior as time went on.

Unfortunately, Mycroft could not really inform Dean of the change of plans until he had arrived in District 12 with Alexander Waters for the first stop in the Victory Tour. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought to call him (he had, of course he had) but he knew that Dean would have questions that they could neither ask nor answer on the phone. So, as much as he felt guilty for it, he had to blindside Dean with the responsibility.

As per Victory Tour tradition, the mayor and any living victors of the host district were to meet the newest victor, their mentors, and their escort at the Justice Building before their speech. Mycroft made sure to arrive as early as Mayor Undersee would allow him, hoping to catch Dean as soon as he entered the room, which was probably the best time for Mycroft to made Dean aware of the news. From what he remembered from his own Victory Tour (and the visit to District 12 the Victory Tour had made last year), there was a little bit of free time between the arrival of the Victory Tour team and the speech itself. The prep team would add any last-minute finishing touches to their victor and the camera crew would be busy setting up their cameras outside of the room; it wouldn’t be completely private, but it would be enough.

And so, when the District 4 team arrived and the prep team went to work on Alexander Waters’ face (the boy was still not used to his prosthetic leg, Mycroft was quick to notice), and Mayor Undersee made small talk with the District 4 escort, Mycroft approached Dean.

“Dean,” Mycroft started, not even able to get a proper greeting out before Dean stepped forward, extending his hand for Mycroft to shake.

“Mycroft Holmes, always a pleasure to see you!” Dean exclaimed as Mycroft shook his hand, unable to ignore the fact that Dean normally would’ve hugged him, at this point; Mycroft was actually getting used to that fact. He had also noticed that Dean did not hug him upon Mycroft’s departure in December like he typically would have. For someone who had an affinity for physical affection, this was not normal. “How have you been?” he asked as Mycroft led him to the farthest corner of the room, and Mycroft knew what he was really asking: for an update on the situation regarding Mycroft’s contract.

Mycroft did not have time for that, however.

“There’s been a change in plans,” Mycroft informed him quietly, skipping over Dean’s question, and Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’ve decided I’m not going to the Victory Tour Banquet this year.”

“What? Why not?” Dean asked, just a fraction too loudly, and Mycroft glanced around to ensure that no one was paying attention to the outburst. “Why not? Are you okay –” Dean asked, reaching out to place his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder to get Mycroft to look at him again; that was more like Dean.

“I’m alright,” Mycroft assured him. “I just got back from the Capitol two days ago and I would really rather not go back unless I absolutely had to, that’s all.”

“But what about –” Dean started.

“You’ve already talked to Alexander Waters; all I’d be there for is to get the numbers from the rest of the Careers. You can do that just fine without me; you’re better with them, anyway. If there was any year that I could get away with not attending the banquet, it’s this one.”

“But I –” Dean started once more, and Mycroft tried to force a smile.

“You will be fine. You can update me in the summer. Just send everyone my apologies; tell them I’ve come down sick. It’s just for this year,” Mycroft assured him as Dean opened his mouth to protest once more, and Dean finally sighed.

“Fine, but just this once,” he decided, and Mycroft nodded.

“Of course,” he assured him. “Thank you, Dean; you’re a life-saver.”

“Yeah, but you owe me,” Dean informed him as District 4’s escort announced that it was time for everyone to take their places, stepping away before Mycroft could respond.

He already knew that he owed Dean; he didn’t need the reminder.

* * *

The next time he saw Dean was over the summer, during the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, after they had arrived back at the Capitol with their newest tributes. Thankfully, their greeting wasn’t as awkward as it had been during the Victory Tour; Dean had hugged Mycroft upon their reunion, at the very least, but they couldn’t speak freely until after the opening ceremony, up on the rooftop of the Training Center.

“So what’s going on? How’ve you been? You’ve been really vague over the phone,” Dean asked, mere seconds after reporting the numbers Dean had collected at the Victory Tour Banquet.

It was true; Mycroft had been speaking less to Dean over the phone, their conversations growing shorter than they had been before Mycroft’s visit to District 4 in December. It wasn’t that Mycroft was necessarily _trying_ to be vague, however; almost all of the things that Mycroft wanted to say to Dean were things that Mycroft did not want the Capitol to hear. Obviously, they could not speak about Project Mockingjay over the phone, but they were used to that. Sometimes Dean would ask about Sherlock, and Mycroft wanted to give him updates on Sherlock’s newly-developing attitude, but he couldn’t without the Capitol hearing him. The whole reason why Mycroft was allotted two years of freedom and why Mycroft couldn’t stay in the Capitol for his clients longer than twelve hours once a week was because of Sherlock; if the Capitol heard that Mycroft was now complaining about Sherlock, they could very easily void that part of the contract, placing Mycroft in the Capitol for even longer.

The other matter of discussion was the matter of Mycroft’s contract going into effect. Mycroft couldn’t blame Dean for wanting an update after Mycroft’s time in December. Dean had helped him the best he could, but he knew of Mycroft’s lines of defense; he wanted to know if they had worked. Really, he might as well have been asking if Mycroft’s trip to District 4, if what Dean had done to help Mycroft, was done in vain.

The funny thing was that, as far as Mycroft could tell, Dean’s help _was_ in vain. If Mycroft had been able to tell the future, he never would have needed to ask for help and never would have needed to take the trip down to District 4 at all. Mycroft had seen nearly all of his clients, and fortunately, Mycroft’s two lines of defense worked like a charm; he never needed to do anything beyond speak with his clients. Some of his clients were more forceful than others, but as soon as Mycroft started spouting his knowledge of their secrets, they instantly stopped to listen to Mycroft’s demands. In some cases, his clients would even go back to Mr. Petrunich, claiming that they had never asked for him in the first place. Of course, Mr. Petrunich had mentioned that Mycroft would probably gain more clients as time went on (most victors did), but Mycroft believed that soon the word would get around that Mycroft wasn’t worth anyone’s time or energy.

He just wasn’t sure how to tell this to Dean. He himself hated thinking of those moments of vulnerability; the asking and the act itself, but it was impossible not to. Those moments were now a part of him, as much as he detested them. Just thinking about them brought Mycroft a great sense of absolute shame and embarrassment, of weakness that Mycroft could not describe; speaking of them out loud was a whole other issue. Perhaps it might’ve been easier, perhaps it wouldn’t be so shameful, if Mycroft’s lines of defense had failed; perhaps then Mycroft’s embarrassment wouldn’t have been so great, for at least then he wouldn’t have to admit that he had been wrong on top of it all.

However, as it was, Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to speak of it.

“I’ve just been busy, that’s all,” Mycroft replied, which was true. “I’ve just been back and forth to the Capitol so much, and Sherlock has this attitude now that I have _no_ idea what to do with…”

“He does? He seemed fine when I talked to him –” Dean started, and Mycroft shook his head.

“It happened after his birthday; you wouldn’t have known,” Mycroft informed him, waving it off.

“Well, what’s going on?” Dean asked.

“He’s just gotten moodier. Angrier. His deductions are getting better, but he’s becoming callous with them, now.”

“That isn’t good,” Dean mused, and Mycroft fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Mycroft knew it wasn’t good; Dean wasn’t the one _living_ with him. “Do you think it’s puberty?” he offered.

Mycroft was surprised that the thought hadn’t occurred to him, himself. The timing certainly made sense.

“Were _we_ this bad, though? Through puberty?” he countered. “I don’t remember being this angry all the time, and it _is_ almost all the time, with Sherlock. I can barely get a smile out of him, anymore; that’s not like Sherlock.”

“You’ve always said he wasn’t like other kids, though,” Dean reminded him. “Maybe this is just how it is for him. You always figured his twelfth would be rough.”

Indeed, Mycroft had always believed that Sherlock’s twelfth birthday would prove to be a difficult time for Sherlock. Even in the weeks leading up to Sherlock’s birthday Mycroft could practically feel the waves of anxiety radiating off his brother, his shoulders sagging under the weight of knowing that Sherlock’s name would join the reaping pool in just a short while.

“Yes, but he looks at me like he blames _me_ for it; like I didn’t stop him from turning twelve fast enough –”

“Well of course he does; you’re his older brother _and_ his guardian – he expects you to fix everything and protect him. That’s how I was with Steven for the longest time, and he’s not even my guardian,” Dean informed him, but Mycroft shook his head.

“He looks at me like he _hates_ me, though.”

“Why would he hate you?” Dean asked, and Mycroft sighed.

“For leaving him home alone so much? For not just letting him do whatever he wants? For keeping him alive this long? For killing our mother –”

“Mycroft –” Dean started, his tone soft, and Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued.

“He could hate me for winning the Hunger Games, at this point, really –”

“I don’t think he hates you for that –” Dean started.

“He hates the fact that I’ve killed people, though, and those two are practically interchangeable. You should have seen him when he found out about Kaden Chase –”

“You told him about Kaden?” Dean asked, and Mycroft shook his head.

“I didn’t have to say a word. I told you, his deductions are getting better,” Mycroft reminded him, and then glanced away. “I expected him to call me a murderer,” he admitted quietly.

When he looked back at Dean, he noticed Dean’s brows furrowed, thinking hard, and Mycroft knew he had just challenged one of Dean’s Career District ideologies; the Career Districts didn’t really consider killing their opponents to be murder, but simply part of the game. Calling a kill in the Hunger Games “a murder” was strictly an Outer District practice.

“Do you think he’d do that?” Dean asked, after a moment.

“He’s thinking it, sometimes; I can tell. I don’t believe he’d actually voice it, though.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Dean asked, and Mycroft was inclined to agree.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he would do with himself if Sherlock ever let the words slip past his lips.

* * *

Over the course of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, despite not needing to recruit anyone, Mycroft and Dean found themselves working closely together anyway, after one of the District 12 tributes allied herself with one of the District 4 tributes early on into the Hunger Games. This, on top of their nightly meetings on top of the Training Center, meant that Mycroft and Dean spent most of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games together. Mycroft would be lying if he said it wasn’t a little awkward, after everything. It wasn’t that their conversations were stunted; if anything, their conversations became more in-depth than they ever had previously. For instance, Mycroft asked Dean about his life before winning the Hunger Games, and Mycroft finally opened up about _his_ life before winning the Hunger Games. However, it seemed as if everything outside of their conversations was different, now. Dean certainly seemed to carry himself differently; whether this was absolutely acceptable, Mycroft wasn’t completely sure. Mycroft also found that, though Dean hugged him and put his arm around him like nothing ever happened between them, every accidental touch left them both slightly uncomfortable.

Mycroft knew that Dean wanted to talk about what had happened in District 4; he knew that he thought about it, at the very least. Sometimes, when they were alone, Mycroft could see the thought growing smaller in his eyes whenever their eyes met. Sometimes, Mycroft wanted to tell Dean to stop thinking about it; to act as if what had happened had never existed. However, if Mycroft spoke of it, it would bring it to the forefront again, and Mycroft would have rather died than bring that on himself. Luckily, Dean never brought it up, which Mycroft was more than thankful for, even if he never said it.

Still, Mycroft knew that he owed it to Dean to give him an update about the status of his situation. However, Mycroft’s shame prevented him from mentioning it until the very last second, after Raz Wiggins from District 3 was crowned victor of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, moments before Dean was about to get off the train at District 4 on the way to District 12.

“Try to have a good autumn, alright?” Dean asked, putting his hand out for Mycroft to shake and pulling him into a hug once Mycroft took it. “Good luck with your brother.”

“Very funny,” Mycroft chuckled. “You have a good autumn, too; I’ll see you in February.”

“I better,” Dean replied with a grin, winking at Mycroft before he turned to walk away.

Mycroft had to tell Dean; he couldn’t not tell him for another six months. And so, swallowing his pride, Mycroft reached out, grabbing Dean’s wrist before he went too far.

“Dean, wait –” he said quietly, and Dean instantly turned back around.

“What’s up?” he asked, and Mycroft glanced away, unable to meet his eyes as he spoke.

“I just wanted you to know…the lines of defense are working. Nothing’s happened,” Mycroft informed him, looking back up at Dean to see a genuine smile spreading across his friend’s face.

“Really? Mycroft, that’s amazing!” Dean replied excitedly, placing his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “With any luck, it’ll continue to work. Update me in February?”

“Absolutely,” Mycroft promised.

And as Dean made his way out of the train car they had inhabited together, Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief, glad that the conversation had gone better than he had anticipated.

Perhaps Mycroft hadn’t needed to be so ashamed, after all, at least when it came to Dean. Perhaps that was just the nature of their friendship. No matter what, though, Mycroft was beyond grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mysophobic (according to wikipedia) is just a fancier word for "germaphobic"~
> 
> HEY AM I HAVING A MINI CONTEST?  
> Would you like to name a minor character in some ~bonus content~? Would you like YOUR NAME to be in some ~bonus content~? I need two girl names and two boy names, from District 12 if you care about that. How to enter: comment some names! Any amount you want! First four (or two, or one, depending on how many comments I get) comments (not including myself) will win, and I'll pick my favorites from your comments (within reason; if there's a repeat name or a Hunger-Games-Canon Name I cannot use it)! When the bonus content is posted, I'll shoutout your username! I have no idea how this will work, please comment 😅  
> The contest is currently: OPEN.
> 
> Music for this chapter:  
> Holy No by the Gold Fields (for Mycroft going back and forth to the Capitol)  
> Spring/Sun/Winter/Dread by Everything Everything (for Sherlock's feelings toward not only turning 12, but Mycroft himself)


	15. Affections.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to have a heart-to-heart with a distressed Sherlock; nine months later, John comes to Mycroft with a discovery he made about Sherlock; Mycroft blames himself, and is once again amazed by John's loyalty to his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww slice of life chapter! Kinda. Maybe a little bit.  
> Anyway - this chapter was originally written as two separate chapters (you will see the disconnect between the two it's clear as day) but the first part was way too short and after just posting two 12-and-13-page chapters a 3-page chapter didn't feel right. So that's why there's a very large and very out-of-place time skip (of about 9 months, approximately) between the two parts of this chapter.  
> Also, the bonus content that I mentioned in the end notes of last chapter pertains specifically to events that occur in the first part of this chapter, but I haven't completely finished that yet!  
> Enjoy the chapter!

Mycroft opened his eyes.

His first instinct was to check his alarm clock for the time, but Mycroft could easily deduce the approximate time without even trying. Considering how dark his room still was on that night in May, he knew it was about two o’clock in the morning, a time when the world was _supposed_ to be quiet. However, Mycroft’s world was not quiet, which attributed to the other reason why Mycroft could so easily deduce the time: because this had been the fifth time Mycroft had tried and failed to fall asleep tonight, and he had just checked the clock just ten minutes ago.

So, Mycroft laid in his bed, watching the ceiling as he listened to the sound of his brother’s voice and footfalls from his bedroom next door, where he was supposed to be sleeping.

It wasn’t completely uncommon for Sherlock to be up and about at this hour; Mycroft often fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock’s muttering, muffled beyond comprehension by the wall between them. However, something was different, tonight, which kept Mycroft awake.

He listened to the sounds of Sherlock grow louder as Sherlock approached the wall that separated their rooms and quieter as he got further away, and it took a few rounds of the pattern repeating for it to occur to Mycroft that Sherlock wasn’t pausing, not like he would if he was doing a late-night experiment. Not only that, but the way Sherlock was speaking also struck Mycroft as odd. He couldn’t make out singular words through the wall, but he knew Sherlock’s tone almost as well as he knew his own, and he knew that the tone of the voice on the other side of the wall was not the one he used for his regular monologues.

Sherlock was pacing. He was pacing and he was angry. Not just angry, but panicked.

Mycroft sighed, pulling the covers from him and rising from his bed.

Once he reached the fourteen-year-old boy’s room with a lit candlestick in hand, he knocked on the door by force of habit alone (he had always been one to knock before entering Sherlock’s room). However, he knew that, if Sherlock was as furious and anxious as he seemed through the wall, he may not give Mycroft permission to enter the room, and so Mycroft continued on without it.

“Are you going to stop pacing at some point, tonight?” he asked, opening the door to shed a little light on a frozen Sherlock in the middle of his otherwise darkened room, startled by the sudden presence of his brother.

“I – I’ll stop – I didn’t know it was keeping you up,” Sherlock stuttered, keeping his eyes locked on his brother’s.

Mycroft was the one to break the gaze, taking a moment to glance about his brother for a second, trying to pick up any deductions he could about his brother’s mental state. Had the boy been _crying?_ How many angry tears had his brother wiped from his face, that night?

Finally, his eyes landed on Sherlock’s hands, his fingers curling and uncurling, his wrists twisting as his hands hung by his sides, and Mycroft was reminded briefly of William Graham. This wasn’t the first time Mycroft noticed Sherlock’s hands making these sorts of movements, of course; Sherlock had a tendency to make them whenever his emotions got to be too overwhelming for him.

Mycroft looked back up at Sherlock.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked, but Sherlock shook his head quickly; too quickly for him to be pacing over something simple. “Would you like me to deduce it?”

Mycroft did this from time to time, whenever Sherlock had difficulty conveying whatever it was he wanted to say. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Mycroft would offer to deduce it in order to help Sherlock put whatever he was thinking into words, but he never did it without Sherlock’s permission.

“No,” Sherlock replied, again too quickly to be innocent.

“You have my privacy, then,” Mycroft assured him. “It’s obvious something’s bothering you, though. I would like to help, if possible.”

“I don’t think you can,” Sherlock mumbled quietly, glancing away from his brother and down at the floor.

“You _do_ know you can speak to me about anything, correct? No matter what it is.”

“I know,” Sherlock said quietly, wringing his hands together, yet still making no move to tell Mycroft what was wrong.

Mycroft sighed.

“It’s alright if you don’t wish to tell me, but you have school in the morning. Would you please at least _consider_ going to sleep? For me?” he asked, and Sherlock quickly nodded, looking back up at his brother.

“Yeah – yeah, okay, I will,” Sherlock assured him, and Mycroft smiled sadly at his brother, wishing he could do more to help him.

“Thank you. Goodnight, brother mine,” he said quietly instead, stepping out of the doorway and beginning to close the door once more, once again leaving his brother in the dark.

Sherlock’s door was almost closed when Sherlock, looking as if he was still at battle with himself, opened his mouth.

“Mycroft?” he called, and Mycroft instantly opened the door once more.

“Yes?”

“How long until they stop?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“How long until what stops?” Mycroft asked. He could’ve deduced the context for Sherlock’s question, but he had already promised Sherlock that he wouldn’t.

“Emotions. Feelings,” Sherlock spat the words, his eyes glistening with tears in the low light of Mycroft’s candle’s flame. “I don’t want them anymore – when do they stop?”

At Sherlock’s words, Mycroft slowly sighed. It was about John Watson; of course it was about John Watson.

“They don’t stop, not really,” Mycroft informed him solemnly. “You can pretend that they stopped, but none of it ever really goes away.”

“I don’t want to pretend –” Sherlock started, closing his eyes in anguish before he quickly snapped them back open again. Mycroft knew the look well; he had worn it plenty of times himself. Sherlock was afraid to close his eyes; afraid of what was behind his eyelids, afraid of whatever thoughts he had that wouldn’t leave him alone. However, Sherlock hadn’t been in the Arena, and the images of finding his mother after Mycroft’s reaping had long since stopped plaguing his mind.

However, Sherlock was still going through puberty, and this was most definitely about John…

Of course. Mycroft had known that Sherlock had fallen in love with John the moment Sherlock told Mycroft about him nearly five years ago; however, the two brothers had never discussed Sherlock’s feelings for John. Perhaps Sherlock finally discovered his feelings for John Watson for himself? If that were the case, though, Sherlock wouldn’t be so upset…

Not unless Sherlock lost all hope.

That must’ve been it: Sherlock, still in love with John as he ever was, had probably finally made the deduction that John Watson was heterosexual. With that simple deduction, Sherlock’s affections for him were suddenly not only unreciprocated but entirely irrelevant, as well.

And yet, Sherlock still felt the way he felt, no matter how much he didn’t want to feel them.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Mycroft tried once more, very quietly, and Sherlock quickly shook his head.

“No, it’s fine,” he said quietly, wiping his eyes without drawing attention to the fact that he was in tears.

Mycroft pretended he didn’t notice.

“Alright, then, suit yourself,” he said instead. “However, if you change your mind –”

“I know,” Sherlock muttered, harshly cutting him off. The anger Mycroft had witnessed when Sherlock turned twelve still showed itself every now and then, but it was nowhere close to how awful or frequent as it used to be. Sherlock had balanced himself out, on that front, no longer as cruel as he once was, much to Mycroft’s relief.

“In the meantime, try to get some sleep,” Mycroft suggested, and went on as his brother rolled his eyes. “Honestly. It might take your mind off of things.”

Crossing his arms, Sherlock glanced away, glaring instead at a corner of his floor.

“Fine,” he finally agreed, and Mycroft wished him goodnight again, leaving him to the darkness and his thoughts once more.

* * *

Mycroft appreciated Mondays.

Of course, when he was younger he, like every child, hated the dreaded day that signified the end of the weekend and the beginning of the school week, but winning the Hunger Games changed that.

Most of the outlying districts did not have a very high graduation rate for, if the family was starving and desperate enough, their teenage child could apply to work in their district to make extra money. This was a life that Mycroft had always resigned himself to; dropping out at sixteen, working twelve-hour shifts six days a week to help keep their mother afloat in their tiny house in the Seam. However, when he did turn sixteen his mother expressed her desire for him to complete his education. Even though it made no sense to Mycroft (he was going to end up in the mines, anyway; what was two extra years?) he complied, continuing to go to school every day.

Eight months later, Mycroft was reaped into the Hunger Games and, after he won, he was given the opportunity to drop out of school. Not only that, but he would never have to work a day in his life; his victory in the Arena alone would pay him handsomely every month for as long as he lived.

Obviously, Mycroft dropped out of school. He was smarter than all the teachers, so what was the point? Not to mention the fact that he was Sherlock’s sole guardian; he couldn’t balance school and Sherlock at the same time. His grades would slip and Mycroft would find it easier to drop out, anyway; it was best to just avoid the embarrassment altogether.

Upon dropping out, though, Mycroft came to a startling, fantastic realization: even though Mycroft was no longer attending school, Sherlock would still had to go to school, for six hours a day, Monday through Friday, September through June, for eight more years. Which meant that, after two days straight of nearly non-stop exposure to Sherlock, Mondays would bring a particularly blissful break from the boy. He didn’t dread Fridays, however, nor did he loathe the weekends he spent with his brother, but Mondays would hold a special place in his heart, at least until Sherlock graduated.

Yes, Mycroft certainly appreciated Mondays.

This Monday in particular was the first Monday after the Victory Tour in which Sherlock turned fifteen, and the first day that Mycroft had gotten to himself since he returned from the Victory Banquet at the Capitol. He had finally officially met the victor of the Seventy-First Hunger Games, Edward Birch, and had gotten confirmation from him directly that he would involve himself in Project Mockingjay, adding another ally from District 8.

To celebrate the success, Mycroft made no plans for this day, instead deciding to spend the day at home before the fireplace with a book that Lindsay had lent him that had been calling his name all weekend…

He was about two hundred pages into the book when there was a knock at the door, and of course he could identify the knocker before he dog-eared the book and set it down on the side table beside him: it was John Watson, the boy who had knocked on the door to the Holmes household plenty of times over the past six years. However, it was Monday morning, not even lunchtime, at this point, so why wasn’t John at school?

Mycroft opened the door, revealing the nearly-sixteen-year-old boy on his doorstep.

“John Watson, always a pleasure,” Mycroft greeted him casually, and John tried his best to return his grin.

“…Can I come in?” John asked, quietly. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Absolutely,” Mycroft replied, and he allowed him through and into the house, closing the door behind him. “Forgive me, but I need to ask: do your parents know you’re here? Or your sister?” Mycroft asked as he led John to the sitting room, even though John knew the interior of the house like the back of his hand.

John shook his head.

“I told Harry to tell my teachers that I’m sick, but my parents think I’m at school,” he confirmed as he took the sofa, and Mycroft reclaimed his chair. “Sherlock doesn’t even know I’m here, but I’m sure he’s figured out that I’m not coming to school by now.”

“I’m sure he has,” Mycroft agreed, and, for a moment, the two stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

It had been awhile since Mycroft Holmes and John Watson were in a room together alone; Mycroft couldn’t remember exactly how long it had been. This was through no fault of either of them, of course; it just so happened that wherever they were, Sherlock was too. It made sense; though Mycroft’s reaping was the catalyst that brought Sherlock and John together all those years ago, Sherlock was the binding force between John and Mycroft, now. Sitting there, alone in the room with John, only reminded Mycroft of the unpayable debt that he owed to him; that he would never stop owing, no matter how hard he tried.

“I believe you had said that you wanted to speak to me about something?” Mycroft coaxed gently.

“Right, yes,” John confirmed, but still he stalled, instead choosing to look around the sitting room that he had come to know so well, as if physically searching for the right words. It took him a few moments to find the words, but even then they weren’t enough. “Something happened,” he finally started. “With Sherlock. Yesterday – or, Saturday night, I’m not actually sure when it happened, exactly.”

As soon as his brother’s name passed through John’s mouth, Mycroft had wondered if his brother had finally gone and revealed his feelings for John. It would have been an entirely reckless move, considering that, since John Watson was heterosexual, admitting that Sherlock had feelings for him would earn him nothing but heartbreak, and even the loss of the only friend Sherlock had ever had. However, John had not slept over Saturday night; he had left the Holmes household before dinner Saturday evening, and returned after breakfast the next day. No, given the timing of whatever had happened, John was still completely in the dark about Sherlock’s feelings.

“Try to explain it, then,” Mycroft said.

“I – when I came over yesterday, I – Sherlock, he…” John tried before trailing off, and then he finally thought of a better way to explain it. “Could I – could I show you? It might be easier if I showed you.”

“By all means,” Mycroft allowed, and John stood up before pausing.

“It’s in Sherlock’s room,” he informed him, obviously asking Mycroft for permission to enter Sherlock’s room without actually asking, seeing as Sherlock himself wasn’t there to ask.

In reply, Mycroft gestured to the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms.

“I’m sure you can find it on your own, by now,” he said, giving John a tight-lipped smile, and John nodded and climbed up the stairs.

Within moments, John returned to the sitting room with a matchbox in hand. Mycroft wasn’t sure what was in the box, but he had a feeling it wasn’t matches.

“I’m not sure what this is,” John said as he returned to his seat on the sofa. “I mean, I do, but I don’t…I haven’t seen stuff like this,” he explained quickly. “I thought maybe you would know?” he guessed, finally passing the box to Mycroft.

Quickly weighing the box in his hands as he held it, Mycroft deduced there was glass inside; glass that carried some sort of liquid, like…

Mycroft opened the box, revealing two vials filled with a clear liquid, a syringe, and about a dozen clean needles.

“When I came over Sunday morning Sherlock was holding the syringe, and had a belt strapped to his arm, but he was completely passed out. I almost came and got you… I thought he was dead, for a minute there. But he wasn’t, he wasn’t – he woke up and he was okay, for the most part. He was really drowsy and he looked completely awful but he was still himself, I just… I don’t know what he’s doing, or how long, or what this is. I didn’t get a good look at the label, not that I’d know what it is, anyway, all the books at school are for apothecary – it looks like it’s from the Capitol –”

Mycroft didn’t need the labels on the vials to know what they carried.

“Morphling,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The Capitol had sent Mycroft home with the drugs early on after winning the Hunger Games, to help with the pain of the injuries that the Capitol’s medicine couldn’t quickly heal after Mycroft’s victory. Mycroft, never truly needing it but wanting to keep it in the house in case of an emergency, put the box in the back of the cabinet under the bathroom sink, somewhere he was sure that Sherlock would never go.

However, apparently, Sherlock _had_ gone into the cabinet under the sink, and had found the drugs that Mycroft had tried to hide. He had used the drugs, not only used them but gotten himself so addicted to them that he overdosed, going by John’s description.

And Mycroft didn’t even notice.

“Morphling,” John repeated slowly. “That _is_ Capitol-made, isn’t it?”

Mycroft fought the lump in his throat with logic.

“Yes, it is from the Capitol. It’s a highly addictive pain killer that they provide to doctors in the districts. You would’ve run into it sooner or later, given your plans to become a doctor, yourself.”

“If it’s only provided to the doctors, how did Sherlock get some?” John asked.

“The Capitol also provided it to me when I won the Hunger Games; they provide it to all the victors. I’ve never used it, but obviously Sherlock got his hands on it. Whenever he ran out…he used the ordering system to get more and intercepted the package before it reached me,” Mycroft sighed, making the deduction as he spoke. When Mycroft started leaving Sherlock alone when he went to the Capitol to meet with his clients, he showed Sherlock how to place orders over the phone, in case he needed anything. He had expected the boy to buy food or to replace anything he had broken, not this…

“How long do you think he’s been doing it?” John asked quietly, and Mycroft shook his head as he placed the cover back onto the box.

“Given the fact that he overdosed, probably over a year, maybe two,” Mycroft replied, but when he looked up at John he found the boy’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Unless you have a better idea of when Sherlock might’ve started?”

John continued to stare at the wall trim as he spoke, concentrating on the memory as it played out before his eyes.

“I just remembered…Sherlock asked me once, years ago…he asked me about what veins a doctor would inject medicine into,” John admitted quietly.

“And you showed him,” Mycroft assumed.

“Of course I did! Why wouldn’t I?” John exclaimed. “We were kids – I was just learning the information, I was happy to prove that I knew the answer – I had no idea that he would –”

“Of course you didn’t,” Mycroft agreed, trying to keep the boy from blaming himself; he didn’t need that, especially considering it was _Mycroft’s_ fault – “Do you happen to remember how old you two were when you had this conversation?”

“I dunno – maybe twelve? I think we were twelve – wait, no –” John then finally looked up at Mycroft with a look of complete horror in his eyes. “– _I_ was twelve. It was the summer he told me about Kaden Chase – Sherlock was still eleven.”

And then the pieces of the puzzle all came together in Mycroft’s head, a timeline constructing itself as if by magic:

Somehow, Sherlock had found his way to the box under the bathroom sink, completely by accident. At some point after finding the box, whether he had made a conscious plan to use it or not, he had enough curiosity to ask John (the only person who not only had the information but also wouldn’t ask questions) about how to inject the morphling into his system. And then, weeks before his twelfth birthday, Mycroft told Sherlock he was leaving for the Capitol for a meeting, when he was really sneaking onto the train to District 4 to meet with Dean for the act that Mycroft still refused to think about, even years later.

Mycroft had known that Sherlock had been dreading his twelfth birthday for the most obvious reasons: as soon as he turned twelve, his name was added to the Hunger Games’ reaping pool. He knew Sherlock was surely preparing for hell, but Mycroft was preparing for his own version of hell that would start the day his brother turned twelve. He knew that the fear of being reaped, or of John being reaped, was giving Sherlock nightmares, even stirring up the image of finding their mother dead again in his mind.

But never, not in a million years, would Mycroft had _ever_ expected Sherlock to turn to…

Unable to do anything else, Mycroft closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in exasperated anguish.

How could he have not known? How could he have not _seen?_ The answer was easy, and he _hated_ the answer: he was so absorbed in Project Mockingjay and his own problems that his brother had gotten addicted to drugs, and Mycroft hadn’t even noticed.

This was not okay. This was so far from alright.

“Please don’t be mad at Sherlock,” John requested quietly from his place on the sofa, and Mycroft looked up at him. “I know it’s not my place, but I didn’t come to you with this so you could be angry with him. I know it’s bad, but he’s not dead – he can come back from this. We can get rid of this, dump it so he doesn’t find it, and he’ll recover.”

John clearly misjudged who Mycroft was angry with.

“He probably has more than just this,” Mycroft said finally, placing the matchbox on top of his abandoned book and rising from his chair.

“Wait, where are you going?” John asked.

“If Sherlock has more I need to find it and ‘get rid of’ it, as you so eloquently put it. I need to search his room.” Mycroft replied as he made his way to the staircase.

“I’ll help,” John offered, standing.

“You don’t have to, John; you’ve done enough, and I thank you for that, truly.”

“No, really,” John said, beginning to follow Mycroft. “I’m already missing school for the day – I have nowhere else to be.”

Mycroft, already halfway up the stairs, turned to look at John.

“Do you really want to help?”

“Absolutely,” John replied, nodding. “Sherlock’s my friend, too – I want him off of the morphling just as much as you do.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Alright, then, come on,” Mycroft allowed, and John followed him up the stairs.

The two made quick work of searching Sherlock’s room; Mycroft took one side of the room, and John took to the other, looking over and under and behind and in any item they came across in the effort of finding any sort of morphling paraphernalia. They rarely talked as they went through his room, only speaking if Mycroft had a question about finding Sherlock; what John had done to rouse him, what he had looked like, what they had talked about after Sherlock finally came to, and other such questions.

“He’s probably going to expect a lecture from you,” John said at one point, after Mycroft had asked if John had mentioned the state he found Sherlock in to Sherlock himself. “He expected one from me, yesterday, I could tell.”

“You didn’t give him one,” Mycroft guessed, and John shrugged.

“I don’t think he needs one,” he said. “It’s Sherlock – I could ask him to give himself the lecture _for_ me and he’d probably say everything I could possibly say.”

Mycroft supposed John was right. What could he have said anyway? That drugs like this were dangerous and that Sherlock should be ashamed of himself for even thinking about taking them, let alone the act itself? Sherlock knew all that and had taken them anyway, and nothing Mycroft could say would change that. The only real preventative action he could take was the one he and John were taking right now: removing the ability for Sherlock to continue.

As they searched, though, Mycroft found John doing something peculiar: if Mycroft had moved anything in his search and didn’t put it back exactly the way he had found it, John went ahead and adjusted the object until it was exactly the way Sherlock had left it before the two had entered the room. He had even gone and fixed Sherlock’s sock index after Mycroft had ransacked it, suggesting an attention to detail that Mycroft had never noticed, until now.

John only knew about the matchbox kept behind Sherlock’s bookcase, but together they found three more. John had found a vial and a syringe tucked between Sherlock’s mattress and box spring, hidden just so that the glass of the vial or the syringe wouldn’t be smashed under Sherlock’s weight when he climbed into bed. Mycroft had found a vial and syringe hidden within a pair of socks in the back of Sherlock’s sock index, and, in a moment of complete genius, another vial and syringe inside the hollow mount of Sherlock’s desk lamp. They continued searching even after finding the fourth stash, just in case they found another, but Mycroft knew Sherlock nearly always hid things in fours, if there were multiple things to hide.

Finally, Mycroft deemed the room clean, and, after retrieving the matchbox John had discovered from the sitting room, the two dumped the vials down the toilet and tossed the glass and the needles into the trash.

“I wouldn’t expect Sherlock to speak to you, tomorrow,” Mycroft warned John as they made their way back downstairs. “He won’t be pleased with either of us.”

“I know,” John replied. “He’ll come around, though.”

“He should, considering who we are to him,” Mycroft agreed. Mycroft was everything to Sherlock, as the only living member of his family left. However, John was Sherlock’s only friend, the only person that outright chose Sherlock, and that was somehow worth so much more.

Mycroft was still thinking about this when John spoke.

“I’ll give him a week – if he still hasn’t talked to me I’ll seek him out,” he said, again choosing Sherlock, making the choice to choose Sherlock, despite everything that Sherlock was.

“That might be your best option,” Mycroft said, before a thought occurred to him. “John, may I ask you something?” he asked before he could stop himself, and John turned around to face him.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” John said, and Mycroft was again reminded of just how civilian the boy was.

“Why do you care for my brother?” Mycroft asked, and John blinked, squinting his eyes at Mycroft, utterly confused by his question.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked slowly, as if it was a trick question, and Mycroft tried not to scoff at his response.

“Because you and I are the only two living people in Panem who do. Because, by all logical reasoning, you _shouldn’t,”_ Mycroft replied, and both statements were true. The Holmes parents obviously cared for Sherlock, but beyond that, no one honestly cared for Sherlock beyond the two people standing in the room. Yes, Lindsay and Dean asked about Sherlock regularly, but they only cared because Mycroft cared. The Watson parents and Harriet also seemed to care about Sherlock, but they wouldn’t have even bothered with him if it wasn’t for John. “However, you do,” he added, and John met his eyes. “And I’m not sure even _you_ know what drew you to him in the first place, but something made you stay, something worth more than all the reasons why no one else can even tolerate him. Why is that?”

After a moment of thought, John finally shrugged.

“I don’t know, actually,” he admitted quietly. “I think it’s just him. It’s everything about him, I think,” he said before catching himself, knowing that whatever affection he felt for Sherlock was stronger than any friendship he had ever had in his life. “Is that weird? I mean, I feel like I – I feel like we’d let him get away with murder – that isn’t exactly normal, is it?”

At this, Mycroft simply smiled.

“Why shouldn’t we? All of Panem let _me_ get away with it years ago,” he replied, and John both paled and smiled back at Mycroft. Mycroft then consulted his pocket watch. “Anyway, school just let out, which means Sherlock will be home soon. You may want to see yourself out,” Mycroft suggested, and John nodded.

“Good idea. Thank you, Mycroft, for…everything,” he said, gesturing to Sherlock’s room upstairs. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

“And thanks for not getting mad at Sherlock,” John added, disjointedly, as if he had just decided that he was going to voice that specific thought. “I was afraid you would be, if I told you.”

At this, Mycroft gave John a sad half-smile.

“Well, I believe you’re right. Sherlock could probably give himself any lecture I would give him for me,” he said simply, and, after John bid Mycroft good-bye and good luck with Sherlock, John finally left the Holmes household.

And Mycroft found that after years of knowing the boy, John Watson’s loyalty and friendship for Sherlock continued to leave Mycroft in a state of shock and awe.


	16. Allies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Mycroft begin recruiting allies who work within the Capitol; Antonia Blake opens up to Mycroft; Mycroft makes a discovery and takes a trip to District 13.

The summer after discovering and ending Sherlock’s morphling addiction, during the Sixty-Second Hunger Games, one of the first things Mycroft did was approach the mentors of District 6, inviting them to be a part of Project Mockingjay. He felt guilty for waiting this long to try to recruit them, but he never had known much about the effects of a morphling addiction, until now. However, he now knew that Sherlock had taken it for nearly three years while not only still keeping his school grades up but also functioning so much like himself that Mycroft had assumed that his withdrawal symptoms were simply the side-effects of Sherlock going through puberty _(how_ could Mycroft have been so _stupid –)_. If Sherlock could do that, then surely the mentors of District 6 could do something as simple as keep a secret from the Capitol. Both mentors graciously accepted the offer, making District 6 the final district to join Project Mockingjay, but they were nowhere near the last people to join Project Mockingjay.

* * *

Throughout the course of the Seventieth, Seventy-First, Seventy-Second, and Seventy-Third Hunger Games, Mycroft and Dean worked together to recruit certain members of what Mycroft referred to as the “Hunger Games staff.” The Hunger Games staff included nearly everyone whose job entailed helping to make the Hunger Games everything it was, from the escorts to the stylists to the prep teams. Mycroft did most of the work, making the necessary deductions about every member of the staff he came across and selecting the few he could recruit from there, then speaking to most of those people he had selected about Project Mockingjay.

Some of the stylists were trustworthy, especially the ones who revealed that a certain Hunger Games would be “their last,” for President Snow had decided that their stylistic ideas were no longer relevant. In fact, some of the stylists went from being completely out of contention to join Project Mockingjay to being completely able for Mycroft to trust with the idea as soon as they were confronted with the news.

The prep teams also shared some of the motivations to join Project Mockingjay as the stylists, knowing that they could slip into irrelevancy and lose their jobs in the Hunger Games at any moment, but from what Mycroft could deduce about various prep teams from each district, very few of them were able to keep a secret. They were constantly gossiping, always fretting over stupid things and eager to share any information they thought anyone else lacked; those kinds of people could never keep a secret, not for long. For this reason, Mycroft found himself only telling about five members of various prep teams about Project Mockingjay, emphasizing the fact that it was never to be spoken about except for with Mycroft or Dean themselves.

The Hunger Games escorts were by far not only the easiest to speak to, but the most understanding of the cause. The escorts worked the closest to the Hunger Games tributes; they travelled to the districts multiple times a year, they met their tributes and spent over a week getting to know them before sending them into their Arena, and they stayed in close contact with the victors who won the Hunger Games. They knew better than anyone not only what the tributes were like, but also the places that they came from. They had the opportunity to see that not all the people from the districts were the destructive rebels the Capitol made them out to be, and the punishment of poverty, fear, and pain that came with living in the districts. Really, if anyone could make any sort of valid opinion about people who lived in the districts and whether or not they deserved the way that they were forced to live, it was them. Of course, some of the older escorts were still prejudiced against anyone who came from the districts, believing that the people now living in the districts were just as bad as their rebel ancestors (Mycroft never mentioned that, in a way, they were exactly right). Dean had warned Mycroft about these people years ago, luckily, and Mycroft was sure that he steered clear of those people.

In all, Mycroft and Dean were able to gather seven escorts to join Project Mockingjay, one of which being the escort for District 4, a woman by the name of Ms. Sybil Shelly. Mycroft, however, deemed it in the best interest for Project Mockingjay if Mrs. Hudson was kept in the dark. Yes, she was one of the few older escorts that seemed to genuinely like her tributes, and Mycroft had grown to become quite fond of her after the events of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, and he truly believed that Mrs. Hudson would gladly join Project Mockingjay, if he allowed it. However, Mrs. Hudson shared the same problem that the members of the prep team did: Mrs. Hudson had an affinity for gossip. In fact, sometimes Mycroft was amazed by the sheer amount of information she had up her sleeve; she seemed to know everything about everyone, almost as much as Mycroft did (this was mostly impressive because she, unlike Mycroft, lacked the ability to deduce). For that reason alone, even though Mycroft wanted to tell her about Project Mockingjay and offer her a place in it, he decided against it.

One of the biggest assets to Project Mockingjay, though, was the Capitol’s Avoxes. These people, their tongues removed and forced to serve the Capitol as punishment for wronging the Capitol in whatever way they had, had the largest reason to want to rebel, after the Hunger Games victors and the family members of the fallen tributes in the districts. However, unlike the victors and the family members in the districts, there was a large volume of Avoxes; nearly five thousand throughout the Capitol, two thousand of those working during the Hunger Games, and Mycroft had even heard that about twenty Avoxes worked in President Snow’s mansion. Mycroft had seen how the Avoxes were treated; everyone in the room always acted as if the Avoxes weren’t even there, until someone required something of them. He could only imagine the secrets the Avoxes could possibly overhear, being as invisible to the world as they were; he could also imagine how beneficial knowing these secrets would be to know whilst planning a rebellion.

Mycroft desperately wanted to speak to the Avoxes, to ask for them to join Project Mockingjay, but there was one small issue that held him back: the Avoxes could not communicate. Yes, he could certainly speak to them, but the Avoxes could never reply beyond a nod of a shake of a head, which wouldn’t exactly get them too far. Mycroft deduced that quite a few of them could write, but passing notes could be dangerous, especially when Project Mockingjay was concerned. What if one of them was caught trying to relay a message? Mycroft wouldn’t allow it.

Luckily, though, Project Mockingjay had Clover Frankland on its side. After winning the Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games, Clover Frankland was forced to adapt to living the rest of her life without the ability to hear, having lost her hearing at the beginning of her Hunger Games. Unfortunately, though, Clover (not only Clover, but everyone) lived in a world that very much relied on the ability to hear; a world that Clover had lived comfortably in for fifteen years without issue, until her Hunger Games.

Right away, Clover realized that her biggest difficulty would be getting past the communication gap between everyone in District 10 and herself. The most obvious problem was, of course, that she could not hear what anyone was saying, but there was also the fact that Clover now couldn’t hear herself speak. Sure, Clover could still talk; she spoke to Caesar Flickerman during her final interview, after all, but anyone who could hear Clover could tell that her voice had changed between her tribute interview and her final interview, all thanks to her inability to hear herself talk. It didn’t take very long for Clover to discover the fact that her voice had changed, even though she couldn’t hear herself to know what the change could possibly be, and she immediately hated her deaf accent, refusing to speak unless she absolutely had to. At first, it seemed as if the only solution Clover had was to write and to have others write anything that they had to say down on paper; however, not many people wanted to have an entire conversation in writing, especially in a group setting. For a while, the only people Clover really communicated with were the members of her family, and Mycroft, as he had told her that she could write to him if she ever needed to.

They both knew that the Capitol screened their letters before sending them to their proper recipient, but that didn’t stop them from writing to each other over the years, sending pages of letters back and forth, discussing anything from their trials and tribulations of living beyond their Hunger Games, to the mourning of the loss of Clover’s hearing, to the duties of being a Hunger Games mentor. Occasionally, certain words or lines (or whole paragraphs) of Clover’s letters would be blacked out, redacted by the Capitol, and sometimes Mycroft’s letters would be returned to him unread by Clover, but the two quickly grew used to that, only letting the other know that they “couldn’t quite read” certain parts of their letters, or apologizing for “the delayed response.” Between the Sixty-Eighth and Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, though, Clover sent a letter to Mycroft, and though good portions of her letter were redacted, Mycroft was able to understand Clover’s news: she was developing a way to speak without writing things down and without using her voice.

Upon reading this news, Mycroft was almost as excited as Clover was, and, when they were finally able to meet in person during the Seventy-Second Hunger Games and Clover was able to show Mycroft what she meant (using her hands to speak, assigning each letter and word to a specific position of her hands), Mycroft immediately requested that she at least teach the alphabet to the Avoxes, and Clover happily agreed. After enough Avoxes learned how to use Clover’s language effectively, they would move on to recruiting them.

One of the key assets in recruiting the Avoxes came in the form of none other than Antonia Blake. After asking Antonia to join Project Mockingjay during the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games, Mycroft always tried to be as pleasant as possible with Antonia, never asking too much of her unless he had no other choice. According to Dean, she wasn’t one to talk after her Hunger Games, but that was fine by Mycroft, for he wasn’t one to talk much, either. However, he would try to converse with Antonia whenever the opportunity presented itself, but he never tried to convince her to open up. Antonia never seemed entirely pleased whenever Mycroft decided to go out of his way to speak to her, though, which was probably why Mycroft was so surprised when Antonia went and sought Mycroft out after all of the mentors had returned to the Capitol for the Seventieth Hunger Games.

On Mycroft’s way out of the gymnasium that served as the training room for the new tributes, having just dropped his off for their first day of group training, he heard her voice calling out to him:

“Holmes,” she called, catching up behind him, and Mycroft turned around to face her.

“Good morning, Antonia. How was your year?” he asked, seeing as he had not seen her since the end of the Hunger Games last summer.

“It was fine, are you busy?” she asked, quickly answering Mycroft’s question before posing her own in the same breath.

The only reason Mycroft could possibly be busy at this point in the Hunger Games was because he was behind on paperwork, but Mycroft always had a tendency to finish his paperwork before the dawn of his first full day in the Capitol. In fact, his next stop was to the Hunger Games Headquarters, where he would be once again the first mentor to hand in their paperwork of the year.

“Not particularly; is there something on your mind?” he asked, and Antonia shrugged.

“Kinda, yeah,” she said, crossing her arms and glancing around. “Can we talk somewhere private?” she asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“My office will suffice,” he decided, leading her to the nearest elevator. It would take Mycroft completely out of his way, but he honestly didn’t mind; obviously Antonia had something important to say if she wished to speak to him in private.

Once the two reached the penthouse, Mycroft led Antonia to his office. His office had previously been his bedroom, but upon realizing that he used his office far more than his bedroom, Mycroft immediately decided that the trip through the bedroom to the office was more than completely unnecessary.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Antonia asked, looking around the room as they entered, but Mycroft had already been expecting the question.

“It’s in the other room. I asked the Avoxes to switch the contents of the two rooms years ago,” Mycroft informed her as he sat at his desk. “It’s more convenient that way.”

“I never go into my office,” Antonia said quietly.

“I barely go into my bedroom,” Mycroft replied. “Anyway, take a seat, please,” he requested, gesturing to the chairs in front of the desk, and Antonia took the one nearest to the door. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Right. About the whole Mockingjay thing…”

“Are you having second thoughts?” Mycroft asked, and Antonia shook her head.

“No – no, hell no –”

“It’s completely alright if you are –” Mycroft tried, but Antonia set her jaw.

“I’m not. I know we need more people, though. Have you thought about the Avoxes? There are a lot of them,” she suggested, and Mycroft nodded.

“We’re working on the Avoxes right now, actually,” Mycroft informed her, and suddenly, Antonia’s demeanor completely changed. She sat up a little bit more in her seat, her eyes a little lighter than they had been all of the other times he had seen her.

“Do you need help with that?” she asked.

Mycroft glanced over her, making his deductions, before he spoke:

“You know one of the Avoxes, correct?”

Antonia opened her mouth at once to argue, to deny Mycroft’s claim, but then she sighed, knowing it was no use.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she finally said, quietly.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Mycroft assured her, but it was still a few moments more before Antonia explained herself, before she allowed herself to be that vulnerable.

“I didn’t talk after I got out of the Arena,” she said quietly, and Mycroft was surprised by the beginning of her story. “I knew that somebody had to die first in that alliance but getting turned on like that – getting betrayed like that, even by someone from my own district…and it was all five of them, unanimously…I couldn’t trust anyone after that. I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t want to open myself up like that ever again. But I had that fucking interview to do,” she went on, spitting the words, her anger flaring back up again. “The recap, too. I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t look at them and talk to Flickerman and act like we were friends after what had happened to me. So I didn’t. I let the Capitol make a fool of itself while they tried to make me talk – to say anything. What I didn’t know was that, during that interview, they were already working on a punishment for me,” she said, her voice losing its anger almost as quickly as it came. “Our dad left us when my sister was born. I was four; I don’t remember much of him. But our mom’s always taken care of us, my sister and me. I was stupid and mentioned it during my first interview with Caesar, so when I decided I wasn’t playing with them for the second interview…”

Mycroft sensed the pattern in her story that was so similar to Dean’s, but he kept himself quiet, kept himself from making the guess.

“I wanted to tell you from the first time that we talked that…I know what it’s like. Leaving for the Games and coming home to find that you’re mom’s not there, anymore,” she said quietly, looking up at Mycroft. “I came home from the Games and Aurora – she was twelve, then – she was _sobbing_ crying, telling me that mom was gone and that the Peacekeepers took her and I…I ran to the Peacekeeper base in Two, and I screamed through the bars of their front gate, but they just laughed at me.”

“I am so sorry, Antonia,” Mycroft said quietly, but she continued on, not even acknowledging his words.

“I thought she was dead for a whole year,” she said, and instantly Mycroft knew where the story was going next. “For a whole year I took care of my sister, and I only spoke to my sister, and when there was a camera on me. I was worried that if I didn’t they would take Aurora, too. And then I came back here for mentoring, and when I got to the penthouse…there she was.”

“Your mother’s an Avox,” Mycroft said quietly, and Antonia nodded.

“A punishment to fit the crime. They could’ve just killed her – they were probably going to, until they thought of taking her tongue. The worst part is, I think, is that they put her with me every Games. I try to give her updates, but I can only say so much, and she can barely reply, so it’s not much. I didn’t even tell Aurora until her last reaping ceremony – I didn’t want her to volunteer just to see her. God, she wouldn’t talk to me for like six months after I told her…” she trailed off, and Mycroft found himself thinking that he would’ve done the same, if he were in her position with Sherlock. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this whole thing but the point is that I’m close to one of them, and I don’t think anyone else in this alliance is. So, if you want me to talk to her, I will,” she finished quickly, putting her guard back up, and Mycroft gave her the kindest smile he could.

“I appreciate you coming to me with this; it took a lot of trust, and I admire that,” he started. “I think you’ll be pleased to know that Clover Frankland and I are working on giving the Avoxes a way to communicate without speaking or writing, which will give your mother a way to reply back to you.”

And again, Antonia’s eyes became lighter at the news.

“Really?” she asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“Yes. I can speak to Clover so you can learn it, as well, if you’d like?” Mycroft offered, but Antonia immediately stiffened at the thought of speaking to someone that wasn’t Mycroft or even Dean. “Clover’s a good person; you won’t need to worry about her. I won’t say a word about your mother; I’ll simply tell her that I’ve assigned you to help her, that’s all,” he promised, and Antonia finally nodded in agreement, looking determined.

“Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks, Holmes,” she said quietly, standing.

But as she was leaving, something came over Mycroft; a need to repay her for opening herself up to him.

“Antonia, wait –” he started before he could think better of it, and Antonia turned around, just before she reached the door.

“Yeah?”

“My father was killed in an explosion in our mines the June before your Hunger Games,” he informed her quietly, refusing to let himself break eye contact. “To be completely honest, I still have difficulty separating your win from his loss, for reasons that I cannot explain. I almost didn’t speak to you about the Mockingjay Project strictly because of the loss I associate you with, but I knew that wouldn’t be fair to you. Dean doesn’t even know this; he knows my father passed and the nature of his death, but I do not believe he’s done the math to realize which Hunger Games immediately followed his passing.”

Antonia gaped at him for a moment, eyes searching, and Mycroft watched her as she tried to figure out exactly why Mycroft had decided to tell her this. Finally, she realized that it was his attempt to open up to her; she saw that Mycroft had taken her secret and had given her his own, and she pursed her lips in a terse smile.

“I’m glad you did,” she said quickly, after a moment.

“As am I,” Mycroft replied, and then, with a nod, he watched her leave his office, feeling a new kinship for Antonia Blake.

* * *

Between Mycroft, Dean, Clover, and Antonia, they made quick work of not only teaching Clover’s hand signs to the Avoxes but also asking them to be a part of Project Mockingjay. By the Seventy-Third Hunger Games, Project Mockingjay had over five thousand supporters, all ready to rebel at Mycroft’s command. Of course, it wasn’t much compared to the staggering amount of Peacekeepers there were in the Capitol alone, but Mycroft always knew they wouldn’t be able to match those numbers no matter how many people they recruited. However, they severely lacked something that the Peacekeepers all had in abundance: weapons.

Luckily, Mycroft had a plan for that.

Just before the Seventy-Third Hunger Games, Mycroft caught sight of one of the many mandatory broadcasts from the Capitol. In this broadcast in particular, they showed what they promised to be “live” footage of a reporter standing in District 13, only existing in that place to remind everyone in the other twelve Districts of the Capitol’s power. Mycroft had stopped paying attention to these sick displays long ago, however something strange caught his eye that day, something he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed, before: the ruins of District 13 were still smoldering. Smoke rose up from the destroyed buildings as if the bombs had been launched just hours ago, not nearly seventy-three. Upon closer inspection, he noticed something even stranger: a mockingjay in the corner of the screen, flying in and out of view, over and over again, every sixty seconds. It was so far away that it might’ve just been a speck of ash to the untrained eye, but the white in its wings was unmistakable to Mycroft. It was the same footage on a loop, while any reporter the Capitol placed in front of the screen was spliced in.

It was obvious: for one reason or another, the Capitol wasn’t filming in District 13. Either because they didn’t want to, or they couldn’t.

A few weeks later, during the seventy-third Hunger Games, Mycroft approached Dean with his discovery and his theory.

“How was your spring–”

“I think there’s something going on in District Thirteen,” Mycroft announced in lieu of a suitable reply, and Dean immediately squinted at Mycroft, confused.

“Oh – really? But Thirteen’s been dead for –”

“I know how long it’s been dead, but I truly believe something is happening in District Thirteen.”

“Like what?” Dean asked, humoring Mycroft for a moment, before he thought about it. “Like a Capitol thing?” he asked, slightly panicked by the idea.

“No, not like ‘a Capitol thing,’” Mycroft quoted. “Dean, I think District Thirteen’s alive.”

“Alive? Like, there’s people living there?” Dean asked.

“That’s exactly what I mean, and if they _are_ alive, they could possibly have weapons for Project Mockingjay –” Mycroft exclaimed, growing more excited at the thought of it.

“Myc, I think you’re getting ahead of yourself – are you sure they’re alive? All of the buildings in Thirteen are destroyed – we’ve all seen it –”

“Not in person. Haven’t you noticed that the rubble is _always_ smoldering, like it’s just been bombed? It should’ve stopped smoking decades ago.”

“Do you think they’re just using an old recording?” Dean asked.

“I _know_ they’re using an old recording,” Mycroft affirmed. “In fact, I believe they haven’t set foot in District Thirteen since they bombed it, which begs the question: why not?”

“Maybe they’re just being lazy,” Dean considered. “Why spend the resources to fly a team out there when they can just shoot a broadcast in the studio?”

“Unlikely,” Mycroft decided. “The Capitol doesn’t think about wasting resources like we do. Not to mention the fact that they’re already flying hovercrafts as far as the outskirts to District Twelve to make sure no one tries to escape Panem; it wouldn’t be too strenuous of a task to place a camera crew and a reporter on a craft for one of the runs and have them land in District Thirteen for a few minutes.”

“Maybe there’s asbestos or something there – they wouldn’t go if it’s a work hazard,” Dean offered, and Mycroft pondered this.

“True, but it shouldn’t still be dangerous, especially since it’s been exposed to fresh air for so long. I think they’re choosing not to go to District Thirteen for another reason.”

“You really think it could still be alive after all this time?” Dean asked quietly. “It’s been seventy-three years, Mycroft – no one can survive without the Capitol for long–”

“Or so the Capitol says,” Mycroft reminded him. _“They_ told us no one can survive without the Capitol. _They_ told us District Thirteen was destroyed. But look around us, Dean. Everything, from the people here to the clothes they wear to the animals they’ve created to even half of our Hunger Games, is completely and utterly –”

“It’s not real,” Dean murmured quietly, as if he was just figuring this out for himself.

“It’s all fake, in one way or another, and if that has taught me anything, it’s that the Capitol always lies. If we want the truth, we have to find it for ourselves.”

At Mycroft’s words, Dean glanced down at his lap, his eyes searching for something Mycroft couldn’t see, trying to remember something.

“If I’m remembering correctly, I think a good portion of District Thirteen was underground to begin with…” Dean recollected, and Mycroft nodded in agreement.

“Then, that must be where they are, now.”

“If they’re even there,” Dean supposed. “But even if they are, how are we going to talk to them about Project Mockingjay? We can’t exactly call them.”

“I’ll make the journey out to find District Thirteen; I’m geographically closest to them, anyway. If District Thirteen really is as dead as the Capitol says it is, I’ll know.”

“You’re not talking about going by yourself, are you?” Dean asked. “Do you want me to come with you? I could sneak onto a train to Twelve and we can –”

“I appreciate the offer, Dean, but that won’t be necessary. I am more than capable of making the journey by myself.”

“You’ll be safe, though?” Dean asked.

“I will be fine, Dean. I’ve been through the Hunger Games; compared to that a trip to District Thirteen should be a walk in the park,” Mycroft assured him with a grin, and Dean had no choice but to agree.

Unfortunately, however, the timing was wrong, right now. It was the dead of summer; if he went out and tried to do it after returning from the Capitol, he would certainly die from heat exhaustion, and just thinking of the chilliness of the fall and winter weather put him in a place he’d rather not dwell on for long. Thus, he had to make his journey in the spring, almost a year after his discovery was made.

He reserved two and a half weeks for his trip, telling Sherlock and the Watsons that he was going away to the Capitol for that amount of time (Mr. Petrunich hadn’t called Mycroft to the Capitol in years, so he wouldn’t have to worry about that). It the longest that he had ever left Sherlock (who was seventeen at the time) alone, but he at least trusted him not to completely destroy the house while he was gone, and hopefully this would be the last time Mycroft would ever have to leave him. The walk itself took about a week, more or less, which was fine; Mycroft had been out on his own in the wilderness for a week, before, in much harsher circumstances. Once Mycroft found the ruins and was able to deduce not only that District Thirteen was alive and well underneath the earth but also one of the entrances that led to the new District Thirteen and a security camera guarding it (cameras that did not look like the cameras from the Capitol or from the Hunger Games Arena), Mycroft planted himself before one of the cameras, waiting for someone to come meet him.

No one came for him for two days. Two days with rationed food, two days of trying not to fall asleep, two days sitting, not sure if anyone would actually come for him, and hoping that someone eventually would. However, it was better than being in the Arena.

Finally, in the dead of the second night, two men finally came out of the entrance and led Mycroft inside, taking him underground to escort him to their president, Alma Coin, a severe-looking woman in her fifties. It was there that Mycroft explained everything: who he was, what he had been through and what he was doing, how he had discovered that District 13 was still intact, and finally, asking for her help. He needed weapons, and soldiers, if they could spare them; that was all he needed. He wasn’t even sure if they were going to need to fight anyone. Best case scenario, everyone would come out unscathed and with a new president of Panem, but there was always a chance that people were going to die. He laid all of this out for Alma Coin, and then waited patiently for her response.

Alma Coin was an ambitious woman, to say the least. In fact, he saw a lot of himself in her: she was calculated with every word she spoke and action she made, calm despite the fact that there was a twenty-five-year-old stranger in her secret underground bunker; she was as callous, cynical, and charismatic as Mycroft only _wished_ he came across as. Most of all, she was intelligent, so much so that Mycroft vaguely wondered if they were related, in some way. However, Alma Coin was also extremely narcissistic, as Mycroft quickly learned as she gave him her reply: she would happily help provide the weapons and soldiers Mycroft needed and wanted, if he met her demands.

Firstly, she wanted to know the amount of rebels Mycroft had accumulated, which he happily gave: including the Avoxes, victors, families of past tributes, and a handful of others, Project Mockingjay had about five thousand two hundred members, but only part of that would be present for the rebellion itself; the others would be scattered throughout the Districts and the Capitol itself. Then, she asked to take over the responsibility of showrunner of the rebellion, but everyone in the rebellion already knew Mycroft as the head of Project Mockingjay, so that wouldn’t work. Upon learning this, she then requested to take over as President of Panem once President Snow was overthrown, and again Mycroft had to refuse. He didn’t want anyone simply taking over as president, instead wanting a vote to take place between the Capitol and all the Districts, choosing a president from a list of candidates.

The two debated the points that Mycroft refused; making compromises and, in Mycroft’s case, telling little white lies to appease this potential ally. Finally, a deal was settled upon: District 13 would hack into the airwaves to tune into the Hunger Games and, when it came time for the final interview, she would ensure that her troops and her weapons were there. He would hold up the final interview and speak directly to President Snow, informing him that he had the numbers and weapons to take him and the Capitol down if he needed to, but he would let him surrender his position quietly. If President Snow cared at all about the civilians within the building of Caesar Flickerman’s studio, he would give up his position of President. If he refused, however, there would be an all-out battle, not only in the Capitol but within all twelve districts, as well, with people who had been preparing for this moment for years against Peacekeepers who, even though they had the training, had spent seventy-three years doing nothing but “keeping the peace.” Once President Snow was dethroned (either by his choice or by force), Mycroft, as the known leader of Project Mockingjay, would serve as the interim president of Panem until an election could be set up, where citizens of all of Panem could vote between Mycroft and Alma Coin for president. If Alma Coin was voted president, she would conduct one last Hunger Games; one where the reaping pool was made up of the children of the Capitol as opposed to the Districts. Mycroft, if voted, was just going to worry about building a better Panem, punishment be damned.

The only catch was, Mycroft had been too late when requesting District 13’s help, so he could not get them to come to the Capitol until after the following year’s Hunger Games, after the third Quarter Quell. It wasn’t exactly what Mycroft had wanted, but it was better to have them later than not at all.

Two more Hunger Games. Two more years of mentoring. He could do that. He could survive it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> Way Out There by Lord Huron (for Mycroft's journey to District 13)


	17. Love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games commences, and Mycroft has to mentor none other than John Watson.

The Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games was held three months later, beginning a sequence of events that Mycroft would never forget, starting in the most unexpected of places.

It was almost funny to Mycroft; for six years, Mycroft had dreaded the Hunger Games reapings, fearing the day Mrs. Hudson plucked Sherlock’s name from the bowl. For years, Mycroft constantly worried about Sherlock getting reaped.

However, he never even considered the possibility of John Watson getting reaped.

He should have, really; John, sacrificing his safety in the name of tesserae, had his name entered in the reaping pool over double the amount of times Sherlock did. Of course, Mycroft had offered to just buy whatever the Watson family might need, but John, not one to accept help when offered it, immediately declined. He insisted that Mycroft had done enough for his family, and he had; he had bought them plenty of food and clothes and even a new house over the years to thank the Watsons for taking care of Sherlock while he was in the Arena, and for planning to adopt him if Mycroft didn’t come back. And so, John put his name into the reaping pool five times each year, letting the numbers add up until, the day of John’s last reaping ceremony, his name was entered into the bowl thirty-five times.

Mycroft knew the odds, and he knew them well. He had done the math so many times in his head that it was almost second nature to him, even after all these years. However, he also did the math and knew the odds enough to know that, sometimes, knowing the odds and doing the math didn’t matter. It was all about random chance and luck of the draw, and low odds did not always mean no odds; Mycroft learned that the hard way.

And apparently, he was learning it again (or at least it felt that way,) for John Watson was reaped into the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games. John Watson, the golden boy who had saved Sherlock’s life when Mycroft couldn’t be there. John Watson, the boy that Mycroft felt forever indebted to. John Watson, the boy who his brother loved.

The moment the boy’s name came out of Mrs. Hudson’s mouth was one of complete and utter shock for Mycroft (though he did not let it show). He had just barely recovered from it, he had barely just begun to register what this would mean, when a voice rang out, one that Mycroft instantly recognized, knew better than anyone’s –

“I VOL-”

Before Sherlock could complete his declaration, however, there was movement in the crowd of boys as John Watson’s hand flew to Sherlock’s mouth. Mycroft could only watch as the two boys squabbled in whispers, Sherlock desperate to save his friend, and John determined to keep Sherlock from throwing himself into danger on his behalf.

After a few moments of this (and Mrs. Hudson feeling the need to repeat John’s name, calling him again to the stage), John finally let go of Sherlock’s hand and stepped away from him, and though Sherlock began to shout after him to the point that one of the other eighteen-year-old boys in the crowd felt the need to hold Sherlock back, Sherlock did not try to volunteer for John again.

And even as Mycroft watched as John made his way to the stage, having turned down the offer of safety to probably die in an Arena that was in no way built for boys like him, Mycroft found that he had never been more thankful for the existence of John Watson.

* * *

As Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson waited in the Justice Building the hour that was allotted for members of the District to say their goodbyes to the tributes, Mycroft couldn’t stop thinking about John, almost to the point where he had nearly forgotten the name of the female District 12 tribute, Mary Morstan. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that, right now, Sherlock was saying goodbye to his best friend, just as he had said goodbye to Mycroft exactly eight years ago. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that this was _so_ unfair to his little brother, after all that he had been through. Most of all, though, Mycroft couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that, through some sick turn of events that felt like the universe’s idea of a joke, Mycroft was now going to have to mentor John Watson.

It had been years since Mycroft had known a tribute he had to mentor, but he was always acutely aware of not only Sherlock’s name in the reaping pool but also the existence of all of his prior tributes’ siblings in the reaping pool (for instance, he knew that both of Tilsee Polner’s younger sisters had been in the girl’s pool for the first time, this year). So how come he had never considered the possibility of John Watson getting reaped? He knew John Watson, he was more than aware of his age and how many times his name was in the reaping pool, so how come he never thought of how he would possibly mentor the boy, if it came to it?

He was so deep in thought that he barely noticed Mrs. Hudson tittering on around him until she touched his arm. He tried to turn his attention to her, ready to collect any context clues in her ramblings to inform him of the topic of her conversation, but it quickly dawned on him that she was waiting for a response from him. He glanced about her, trying to deduce the question, but all he got in return was a sense of concern.

“Sorry – what was that?” he asked, possibly for the first time in his life.

“I asked if you were alright, dear,” Mrs. Hudson repeated. “You seem a bit distracted,” she went on, and Mycroft paused, considering his answer.

The two had gotten fairly close, over the years, and Mrs. Hudson always seemed to be more empathetic to Mycroft’s struggles than he thought she had the capacity to be. He had only ever told her that he knew Kaden Chase before having to mentor him, but that was only after he died, and even still, Kaden Chase was one of the last tributes he knew outside of the Hunger Games. Why not tell her, now, that John Watson, not just someone Mycroft knew, but someone who meant so much to both members of the Holmes family, was reaped into the Hunger Games?

Mycroft opened his mouth, was about to let the words pass through his lips, when he suddenly thought better of it, and clamped his mouth shut.

What was he _thinking?!_ John Watson knowing a mentor of the Hunger Games like Mycroft was practically cheating. If it was common knowledge that John was close to the Holmes family, it would be assumed that Mycroft had told him so much about the Capitol and the Hunger Games, all the insider information that may just have made John more prepared for the Hunger Games than any other tribute that year. Hell, Mycroft might as well have already given John all of his insider’s information by way of Sherlock! Of course, the Capitol wouldn’t call sabotage if the secret came out, especially since all of this information came to John _before_ he was ever reaped (or even old enough to _be_ reaped, in some cases), but it could certainly paint a target onto John’s back, if anyone were to mention it.

Thus, Mycroft kept his affiliation with John a secret, ready to change his tune if John decided to divulge the information. Luckily, though, Mycroft quickly discovered that John had come up with the same idea on his own, lying to Mary Morstan when asked if he ever met Mycroft. Any other tribute might’ve tried to use their connection to a mentor as an advantage without thinking about it thoroughly, or simply not even giving thought to it at all, but John clearly had, which impressed Mycroft immediately.

And so, when there was another person present, Mycroft and John acted as if they had only met after John’s reaping, only showing any sort of familiarity toward one another when alone. Together, they kept the secret well, but there was one person who held a suspicion against them, and that was Dean Bainbridge.

While John was off getting prepped by his prep team and dressed by his stylist, a newcomer by the name of Cinna (who Mycroft had already decided was trustworthy enough to know the secret of Project Mockingjay) Mycroft attended his mentor meeting with the Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, and the rest of the Hunger Games mentors. As soon as Mycroft made eye contact with Dean from across the room, Mycroft knew that Dean had the suspicion of who exactly John Watson was, but Mycroft absolutely did _not_ want to discuss the matter here (or at all, if he was honest). He made a point to avoid Dean throughout the mentor meeting, not even looking at him until the meeting was dismissed. After the meeting ended, Mycroft glanced at Dean to find him with the rest of the Career Mentors, but Dean had apparently been trying to catch Mycroft’s eye, for he was already watching Mycroft, waiting for Mycroft to look his way.

“Midnight?” he signed subtly as soon as he and Mycroft met eyes, and Mycroft sighed. He couldn’t avoid Dean forever.

“Yes,” he signed back, just as inconspicuously, and quickly looked away and made his way to the exit as soon as he saw Dean starting to sign the question Mycroft desperately wanted to avoid: the question of whether or not Mycroft was okay.

* * *

Mycroft made his way to the rooftop at eleven-thirty that night, hours after the opening Ceremony for the Hunger Games. The Morstan girl seemed to be taking everything in stride, but he noticed that John’s predicament was already heavily weighing on him, which wouldn’t fare well in the Hunger Games. He was able to brighten John’s spirits a little bit with some cake and some strategic advice, but when John announced that he was still tired, Mycroft let him sleep.

Once everyone else had found their way to their beds, Mycroft left his office and made his way up to the roof, glad for the break from his paperwork, for once. Knowing that Dean wasn’t one to show up to the rooftop early, Mycroft wandered to the edge of the roof, watching the lights of the Capitol below him as he forced himself to breathe deeply, his mind buzzing with the memories of the day.

He had to keep John Watson alive. He had to, for Sherlock; the boy would never forgive him if John died on his watch. However, saying he was to keep John alive was far easier than actually saving the boy. He had killed for Sherlock before; that was almost easy to do, at this point. Keeping someone _alive_ for Sherlock, however? That was a completely different task entirely.

He leaned over, groaning in anguish as his mind raced, placing his face in his hands before running his hands through his hair. Mycroft was the only person from District 12 to have ever won the Hunger Games; creating another victor from his home was not something Mycroft knew how to do. But he needed to, he _needed_ to save John –

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Dean asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and alarmingly early, and Mycroft shot straight up, spinning around, trying to make it look like he was never anything less than completely fine with the turn of events.

“Dean – how long have you been there?” Mycroft asked, and Dean shrugged, crossing his arms.

“I was up here before you were,” he explained simply before continuing: “The boy Sherlock told to shut up when I called him in Four, his name was John, right? It’s the same John, isn’t it?”

Mycroft sighed. Dean had kept far more important secrets over the years; what was one more?

“It is,” he admitted.

“I thought it was – I thought I saw Sherlock next to him, but I wasn’t sure,” Dean said, and Mycroft nodded his confirmation. “Is it true he tried to volunteer for him?”

“It is,” Mycroft repeated, and Dean immediately softened.

“Oh, Mycroft –”

“Don’t,” Mycroft snapped.

“Sherlock must be devastated,” Dean said quietly, after a long moment, and Mycroft scoffed.

“‘Devastated’ doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he muttered.

“Have you talked to him?” Dean asked, and Mycroft nodded.

He had indeed talked to Sherlock, calling him after he spoke to John during the replay of the opening ceremony. At first, Mycroft thought Sherlock was going to just let the phone ring, for normally Sherlock picked up by the second or third ring. However, Sherlock picked up just as the phone was about to send Mycroft to voicemail:

_“Hello? Hello – Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, fumbling as he brought the phone to his ear, sounding as if the boy had just run a marathon._

_“Yes, Sherlock, it’s me. Why are you out of breath?” he asked._

_“I – I just got back from the Watson’s – we watched the chariots together – problem?” Sherlock asked, still working on catching his breath as he spoke._

_“None at all,” Mycroft replied. “How are they, the Watson’s?”_

_“Harry and Mrs. Watson keep crying – his dad’s quieter than usual but not by much,” Sherlock reported, though it was evident in Sherlock’s voice that he, too, had been crying. “How is John?” Sherlock asked quietly, and Mycroft sighed._

_“I can’t disclose that information, unfortunately,” he replied. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly wish I could. How are –”_

_“You’ll save him, right?” Sherlock asked suddenly, voice desperate. “You’ll get him sponsors and you’ll give him what he needs to win, right?”_

_Mycroft sighed again, running his hand through his hair._

_“Sherlock, it’s more complicated than that, I can’t just give him all the answers –”_

_“But it’s John – he needs to come home!” Sherlock exclaimed, sounding as if he was about to cry again._ “You _came home –”_

_“I know, and that in itself was a miracle. I don’t know if we’ll be that lucky, again –”_

_“But it’s_ John!” _Sherlock repeated, definitely crying now. “Please, Mycroft, try to keep him alive,_ please –” _he begged, and Mycroft so desperately wanted to tell him that he would._

_“I can try, but that’s the best I can do,” Mycroft promised quietly, nearly whispering into the receiver. “I know you don’t know what it’s like in there, but the majority of John’s survival isn’t up to me, Sherlock. I lived because I wanted it badly enough. John has to have that will, as well,” he informed his brother, and he could hear his brother sigh through the other side of the phone._

_“He has the will,” Sherlock decided. “And if he doesn’t, he will. I hope. Maybe.”_

_“I’m sure he will,” Mycroft agreed._

_“I just want him to come home,” Sherlock finally mumbled, trying not to sniffle into the phone._

_“I know,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’m sorry he’s in this mess, Sherlock. He deserves more than this.”_

_“He deserves so much more,” Sherlock whispered into the phone, and Mycroft could only imagine the pain Sherlock was in._

_“Everything at the house is broken, isn’t it?” Mycroft asked, after a moment. After Mycroft started leaving Sherlock alone during the Hunger Games, he found that Sherlock, angry and alone, had found a way to express his rage, taking it out on the ceramic vases of their home in the Victor’s Village. It was never much, just a vase or two here or there whenever the world got to be too much for his little brother, and Mycroft didn’t mind replacing them upon his arrival home. However, Sherlock had never known a tribute personally since moving into the Victor’s Village, and Sherlock knew John more than anyone else in all of Panem._

_“Pretty much,” Sherlock replied in a mutter._

_“That’s alright; things can be replaced,” Mycroft assured him, and, upon hearing Sherlock’s silence on the other line, Mycroft moved on. “I know things are difficult right now, but please try to sleep, will you? And remember to eat, please. Let me focus on John; you take care of yourself in the meantime, alright?”_

_His brother hummed noncommittally in reply._

_“Yeah, I’ll try,” he muttered. “Goodnight, Mycroft.”_

_“Goodnight –” Mycroft started, but he heard the click that signified that Sherlock had hung up the phone before Mycroft could finish his goodbye. This wasn’t odd for Sherlock, but, considering the circumstances, Mycroft was still extremely worried._

_No, devastation definitely did not even begin to describe Sherlock’s pain._

“He wants me to save him,” Mycroft muttered to Dean, and Dean sighed, knowing the complexities of “saving” a tribute all too well.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I probably don’t have a victor in Four,” Dean informed him, and Mycroft’s eyes flicked to his, silently urging him to continue. “They’re nothing special, that’s all; one’s a bit cocky and the other’s too much of a follower to actually win. I think we’ll have to worry about One, though.”

“I _know_ we’ll have to worry about District One,” Mycroft replied. “And at least the boy from District Two. He’s a bit of a follower, as well, but considering that Moriarty boy he’ll probably end up partnering up with him before they even reach the Arena.”

“You think?” Dean asked.

“Oh, I know,” Mycroft assured him. “James Moriarty’s going to be the biggest threat this year.”

“Then we might as well say a prayer for John Watson, now.”

* * *

It took two days after the Hunger Games commenced for Dean to even mention Mycroft’s trip to District 13 to him, and Mycroft was happy to give him the news: District 13 was very much alive, and was willing to help Project Mockingjay. He was also pleased to announce that Project Mockingjay now had a set date of execution: the night of the final interview to end the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games. There was very little they could do, now, besides wait and recruit the last couple of Capitol staff and Avoxes they could (which included Cinna), but, this year, most of Mycroft’s focus and energy was focused on John Watson.

Mentoring John for the Hunger Games was an easy task, considering that John was one of the best tributes Mycroft had ever worked with. Not only was he receptive to advice and relatively calm despite all the pressure he was suddenly under, but most of all, John was smart. Of course, he wasn’t nearly as intelligent as the Holmes brothers, but he certainly thought his decisions through, and was cautious in every risk he took. In fact, the hardest part of mentoring John (apart from the ever-present reality that John could very much die in the Hunger Games Arena) was pretending that he and John didn’t already have a history. Together, though, the two kept the secret well.

Of course, Sherlock _would_ be the one to ruin it, even from hundreds of miles away.

After eight years of keeping his feelings for John Watson a secret, Sherlock decided to use John’s tribute interview to finally reveal the way he felt, not even considering the fact that, if the feelings weren’t reciprocated, it would be a very awkward moment for John, forever immortalized on national television. He sent a flower that Mycroft deduced meant something to the two of them to John, attaching his name to the thing, so that everyone would know exactly who sent it. He even included his last name, and since Holmes wasn’t a common last name, especially in twelve, the connection was made almost too easily: Sherlock and Mycroft were related, and, by mere extension, John knew Mycroft outside of the Hunger Games.

To Sherlock’s credit, he _had_ tried to warn Mycroft of what he was planning to do; however, Mycroft made the mistake of cutting Sherlock off, thinking he knew what Sherlock was trying to warn him of, and ended up being just as blindsided by Sherlock’s declaration as John was. However, the position Sherlock put John Watson in was unlike anyone had ever seen before, as no one from a District had done anything like this in any of the Hunger Games previous. The worst part, though, was that Caesar Flickerman (and the rest of the Capitol at large) demanded to know if Sherlock’s feelings were reciprocated, and, in the hopes of gaining more sponsors, John confirmed his feelings for Sherlock Holmes. For the first time ever, Cesar Flickerman gave an extra minute to John’s standard three-minute interview for a few follow-up questions, and Mycroft could only hope, for Sherlock’s sake, that John would be able to sort through his feelings without the Capitol breathing down his neck at a later time.

That year, for the first time ever, Mycroft asked Seneca Crane to take the stylist’s place in the Catacombs below the Arena to say goodbye to John, ensuring that he was the last face John saw before entering the Hunger Games Arena. After that, though, Mycroft could only help from within the confines of the Capitol.

After the communicuff malfunction of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games, to keep in the good graces of the Gamemakers, Mycroft always made sure to be as fair as he possibly could when it came to dispersing sponsor gifts, making sure he never favored one tribute over the other, unless there was simply no hope for them. The other mentors did not share the struggle of needing to split their attention between their two tributes; since there were two mentors per district (save for District 12), each mentor could focus their attention on one tribute. For instance, Dean’s tribute to focus on this year was the male tribute from District 4, Jeff Hope, who had an affinity for poisoning his opponents’ food supplies. Unfortunately for Mycroft, he did not have another District 12 mentor to split the responsibility of mentoring his tributes with, so, despite the major conflict of interest that was John Watson, Mycroft had to at least try to remain impartial. And so, Mycroft sent sponsor gifts to both John and District 12’s female tribute, Mary Morstan, during their time in the Hunger Games Arena, even saving Mary from a death by Jeff Hope’s poison, until Mary finally met her end at the hands of the male tribute from District Two, Sebastian Moran (which, as the Capitol never failed to point out, was a much more interesting death than a simple poisoned apple). After that, he focused all of his efforts on saving John.

Despite the circumstances, the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games was one of the most unforgettable Hunger Games in recent years, even without John Watson in the Arena. Mycroft had been correct about James Moriarty from District 1; he was a force to be reckoned with throughout the entirety of the Hunger Games, quickly becoming a fan favorite among the Capitol. For most of the Hunger Games, no matter how Mycroft looked at it, all of the deductions he made came to the same conclusion: James Moriarty would win the Hunger Games. However, through some smart thinking and some pure, dumb luck, John Watson found himself in the final two with James Moriarty as his opponent. Mycroft had used the last of John’s sponsor money to provide him with a knife for the finale, but John was quickly disarmed of it, leaving him to deliver the final blow with a stone when James Moriarty least expected it, becoming District 12’s second-ever victor.

After years of trying, Mycroft was able to finally, _finally_ bring home a tribute that he had helped save, and it was none other than the boy who had saved Sherlock all those years ago. Best of all, John had sorted out his feelings for Sherlock within the Arena, deciding that he indeed told the truth when he announced that he loved Sherlock, and the two quickly began happily dating, despite John’s post-traumatic stress. It seemed like the perfect ending to a story that only Mycroft knew was ending, and Mycroft only had one more Hunger Games to mentor before finally taking down the Capitol and President Snow once and for all.


End file.
